


Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x02: "Murder By Numbers"

by frogfarm



Series: Faith the Vampire Slayer [11]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: Cybercrimes, F/F, Government Agencies, Government Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-24
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith and Willow meet the No Such Agency man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** | stoked  
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**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs), [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/teaser)  
  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer: 1x02 (teaser)** _

Happy Double Soup Tuesday!

 

[Previously, on Faith the Vampire Slayer:](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/47732.html)

 

 

 

   _We got computers  
   We're tappin' phone lines  
   You know that that ain't allowed._

    - Talking Heads

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Faith knows all the arguments against her driving, on an intellectual level. Needless to say, it doesn't stop her from chafing at the bit, having to play the passive passenger. She holds her tongue on the interstate, bites down during Willow's interminable parallel parking sessions that rival glacial drift; taking comfort in the knowledge that should they ever be limited to manual transmission, her mad skills will become essential. Since Dana's departure they've been sticking to smaller rentals with next to no leg room, even leaning all the way back, boots on the dashboard. Willow doesn't actively discourage this -- at least not out loud -- but Faith's actually trying not to cross that fine line between informal and tacky.

  Also, as Willow predicted, their musical tastes clash to no small degree. Not much a dropout can teach an honor student about anything, besides herself, and Faith's not into reminiscing what she spent most of her pre-prison life trying to forget. She often wonders how much of her is still inside Willow, left over from the witch's desperation brain-dive. Especially during those offhand moments when something floats up from beneath: Fear of frogs; the resentful, half-conscious lust ever since the redhead first laid eyes on her, that bravery hasn't overcome guilt enough for Faith to bring up. No idea how far the other way it goes, what the redhead remembers of her secrets, dark or otherwise. Dana's not around any more to blab, and Willow is too discreet to mention, Faith too

  (_afraid_)

  to ask.

  The upshot is that she spends most of their time on the road just watching the scenery go by. Willow alternates between semi-nervous babbling and a respectful, awkward silence. Which is a shame, as Faith's own outlook swings just as often from liking of the quiet to actually missing the chatter when it stops. Unfortunately, their periods are more in sync than their moods.

  Doesn't help she's been fighting the funk for a while, ever since they sent Dana back to England with Xander. Like the driving thing, her brain is perfectly aware that obsessing only makes matters worse -- for her, and the fucked-up kid they've basically abandoned -- but all the rationalizing in the world can't make Faith feel like any less of a shitheel. Willow's first response if she brings it up will no doubt be something like _So, you think we made a mistake?_ And maybe it was a hard call, but it was the right one. For now.

  Just sucks she had to make it right when she'd been getting used to the three of them. Relaxing enough to feel like a family, dysfunction and all.

  _Knowledge is power_, says the schoolhouse rock.

  They never tell you about the pain.

 

  For Willow's tenth birthday, her mother took the weekend off for their family's first and only impromptu road trip. Unfortunately the Rosenbergs didn't make it halfway to Hollywood when her father's colitis flared up, badly enough to keep him bedridden at the motel, not enough to warrant going to the emergency room. Sheila, ever practical, decided it wasn't worth returning home so soon, and drove the two of them into town for ice cream and a trip to the park. There was even a tiny museum, with exhibits of fossils people had found among the local cliffs, and maybe it was dumb to get so excited about a pen filled with water and colored rocks but it looked so nifty Willow couldn't help it.

  She's been meaning to start a new journal. A real one, with actual paper. Except typing is so much faster, and writing longhand makes her think of all the journals she kept when she was with Tara. Lost forever.

  Just like her pen.

  She'd hoped for a more enthusiastic traveling companion once they were clear of California, but her girlfriend still has a limited number of ways to relax, none of which include discussion of tourist hotspots. Faith is unflappably cool, assisted by new sunglasses; wears her hair back more often, probably to avoid being recognized from her mugshots. Plus the Slayer has been acting antsier since before they crossed the border into Maryland, moving closer to D.C., as though the demon in her is responding to the proximity of power.

  True, that public displays of affection had never been a thing with Faith -- well, affection, anyway. And maybe they hadn't wanted to throw their relationship in anyone's face, back when they were surrounded by so many familiar ones. It wasn't like there had ever been a lack of snuggling, behind closed doors. But ever since Dana left, Willow knows all too well that _she's_ been trying not to feel like a failure, and it doesn't take a rocket scientist -- or the western hemisphere's most powerful Wicca -- to figure Faith has to be fighting more or less the same battle.

  To say Willow herself is torn would merely be a good start. No amount of tea and sympathy can make up for her being selfishly glad to have Faith all to herself again. And it's not that she didn't love having Dana around, but given some aspects of this particular problem set, it's just easier to approach it from a slight remove. They've already charted out some promising herbal therapy, based on existing drug regimens to dampen or nullify psychic ability...

  "What exit was that?"

  "Huh?" Faith doesn't move, leaning back in her seat, both arms crossed. The sunglasses make it impossible to tell if her eyes are open.

  "The big green sign with the numbers?" Willow hopes that didn't come out too snarky.

  "Wasn't lookin'."

  _Guess that answers that._ "Well, keep an eye out for thirty-six. I want to gas up and check in with Giles. And since we're practically kayaking down the Potomac --"

  "We just 'checked in' yesterday." Faith seems to shrug without moving. "If she ain't tried pullin' another Houdini -- you really think she's gonna get better with us breathin' down her neck?"

  Willow ignores the mild irritation in the other woman's voice.

  "I just want to actually _see_ the nation's capital. When I was a kid, I always voted for our school trips to go to Washington. But we never did." Willow's smile fades. "Probably because Sunnydale's bond money kept getting diverted for all those police funerals."

  Faith remains silent. Willow wonders, briefly, how much her apartment might have cost the town's taxpayers. Maybe nothing; in hindsight, Wilkins' cronyism made the Mafia look like a kindergarten candy ring.

  "Come on." She tries not to sound overly wheedly. "Granted, not _quite_ as much fun as a nightclub --"

  "Try nowhere near."

  "-- but who can resist an adorable little animated parchment? _I'm just a Bill, yes I'm only a Bill_ \--" She trails off as Faith pinches the bridge of her nose, as if to stave off a headache.

  What the hell did she do now?

  "Is it just the whole fugitive thing?" she ventures. "I didn't think about it, but -- this whole town is like the ultimate cop shop."

  Faith snorts, lips twitching in what might be a smile. "You really just said cop shop."

  Willow can feel her cheeks warming, as they tend to do during these conversations. "I mean -- when you think of government. What's the first thing you think of?"

   "Biggest gang on the block." Faith still hasn't moved, other than the involuntary shakes as they pass over the occasional pothole. Willow tries to ignore the accompanying jiggle.

   "So I take it you've never done your civic duty?" _Eyes! Eyes on road!_ "Exercised the franchise?"

   "Duty, schmooty." The Slayer turns her head, eyebrows crinkling. "French fries?"

   "You mean freedom fries." Now that was snarky. "I meant, have you ever voted?"

   "They stay outta my way, I do the same." Faith returns her gaze or closed eyes to the underside of the car roof. "Guess I'm, whaddyacall -- neutral."

   Willow ponders this. "Like Switzerland?"

   "Like I don't give a rat's ass." Wry humor turns to flat dismissal. "Besides -- convicted _and_ escaped felon. Not really worryin' about it any time soon, y'know?"

   Willow concentrates on letting the obnoxious RV hurry up and pass. Finally Faith lets out a sigh, the kind that usually portends at least partial victory.

   "It's no big. I mean --" The Slayer clears her throat. "It's no big thrill for me, but --"

   "We don't have to," Willow quickly assures her. "Seriously. I don't want to be all, _you would if you loved me_ gal --"

   "You want me to wave the flag for one day?" Faith's lips twitch again, in an almost-smile. "Shut up and drive."

   Willow feels a little better. But Faith still looks vaguely itchy, despite her lack of movement.

   "You think there's a Hellmouth?" She tries for at least semi-joking, for all that it's a serious question.

   "Yeah. 'Cause this place _definitely_ needs onea those."

   "You just looked kind of...edgy." Willow shrugs, ignoring the sarcasm. "Or maybe it's PMS."

   "Bitch." But the word is without rancor. Willow hides a grin.

   "Grab that map out of the glove box?" Faith complies without hesitation, and Willow sighs inside. If only it were always this easy. "There should be a landmark guide. And we can look for brochures at the gas station."

   "Okay, White House -- I can see that." Faith sounds honestly perplexed. "But what the hell else is there?"

   "What _isn't_ there?" Willow tries not to overexpound. "The Washington Monument --"

   "Oooh. Great big phallic symbol."

   "The Smithsonian, the Library of Congress --"

   "Not talkin' to Giles." Faith smirks. "Course, he's _almost_ as hot."

   Willow blushes. Of all possible memories, it figures that's the one Faith might never let her live down.

   "The Smithsonian isn't just a museum, you know. It's _the_ museum. We could probably find a weapons exhibit --"

   Faith rolls her eyes again, exuding _I can read, you know_.

   "Supreme Court?" Faith doesn't even blink. Willow thinks she deserved worse. "Right...the Vietnam Veterans Memorial?"

   "Too much fuckin' perspective."

   "It is a bit monolithy...oh!" Willow snaps her fingers. "The NSA headquarters at Fort Meade! I know, it's just a big building -- and you're not a math nerd, or a computer nerd, or really much of a nerd in any possible --"

   "NSA?" For the first time Faith sounds curious, not like she's trying to cut short the babble. "You mean that secret agency that spies on everyone?"

   Willow takes a dry tone. "Obviously, it's not all that secret."

   "You know what I mean."

   "Maybe." Willow mulls this over. "They're not _supposed_ to monitor domestically -- they've got the FBI for that. But it's not a real big stretch to assume they've broken the law at least once. If not more." She frowns. "If someone felt like they had no other choice."

   "Oh, sure." Faith nods. "I'll bet they felt just terrible about it."

   "Well, modern life does have less privacy -- not much getting around that. But for most of us, the benefits outweigh the cost." Willow feels compelled to try to lighten the mood. "Besides. The odds of any one person being under surveillance at any given time are..."

 

   "_...astronomically low._"

   The blue Ford Taurus whisks past the unmarked car, heading for the offramp.

   Terry turns to his new partner, grinning from ear to ear.

   "I like those odds!"

 

 

 

 

 

**


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x02: "Murder By Numbers" (Act 1)** _

I declare it good enough. Phooey! Phooey! I have spoken!

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/80754.html))

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer  
Year One**

by [](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/profile)[**frogfarm**](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/) ([damaged justice](mailto:realfrogfarm@gmail.com))  
creative [con|in]sults, additional prose and fine tuning by [](http://somercet.livejournal.com/profile)[**somercet**](http://somercet.livejournal.com/)

1x02:

"Murder By Numbers"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Terry Susskind knows he's not an exceptional cop. What he likes to think makes him a halfway decent one, besides his innate and ultimately flawed urge to do right, is his lack of blinders. He is perfectly aware that many people despise your mythical average cop, that the reputation is increasingly deserved; that he himself is nobody's hero, that his true mettle has yet to be tested on the streets or behind closed doors. His career has been a simple default rather than a true calling, as expected from a hometown boy whose dad was a cop: A semi-dying breed, slowly replaced with gung-ho ex- and wanna-be military. He's lucky to be alive and in one piece after ten years and three transfers, but considers himself even more so to have witnessed no true atrocities; no clear and present set of circumstances that would compel him to come down on the wrong side of internal affairs.

  He's never married, but he's been with the same woman almost as long as he's been on the force. He works out and plays softball, and three weeks ago he finally made detective.

   He is also still very much a kid.

   "That was _wicked_," he marvels, digging into his steaming plate of cheese fries. Apparently his new partner's talents don't end at requisitioning state of the art toys outside normal channels. Terry thought he knew every greasy spoon in town until David pointed out this tiny, run-down hole in the wall, heading straight for the back and seating them at a wobbly table under a broken fan.

   "I know." David doesn't smile a lot, but when he does he's the leading man in a daily soap. It's testament to his likeable, easy-going nature that it doesn't make most guys want to punch his lights out. His spiky hair makes Terry feel old, even though they're supposedly the same age, and he's never seen the other man out of his wire-rimmed glasses despite the departmental regulations requiring contacts.

   Terry squirts a generous dollop of ketchup over his fries. "You do that a lot?"

   "You mean calibrate my equipment by pointing it at random vehicles?" David shakes his head. "That would be wrong."

   Terry thinks of himself as a passable judge of character. His jury is mostly out on the new guy -- they've only been working together for two weeks, after his first partner unexpectedly transferred out of DC Metro and off to some shithole called Garrison, New Jersey (and with a name like that, it's bound to be a shithole even if it wasn't in Jersey). Still, David seems like a dream come true: Professional without being a driven, Dragnet-type; approachable without being an idiot. Case in point, the stylish, compact directional mike they -- make that Terry -- didn't have to sign out.

   "So when do we get to use it for real?"

   David nods, a single finger upraised, working on his mouthful of starch and giving a mighty swallow.

   "Otho comes in here every Tuesday." This is David's name for Marty Othinberg, the penny-ante dealer they've been trying to roll for weeks in hopes of nailing his supplier. Terry once asked what it meant and David just said _Roman emperor_, in this way that didn't make you feel like you were an idiot for asking or he was better than you for knowing, but in a way so self-evident and profound it left you feeling smarter.

   "No shit." Terry stifles the urge to look around. "You don't think he can make us?"

   "Nah. He's strictly pickup." David uses a fry to point at the door. "Sends his buddy in while he makes the turnaround. Likes to stay in the car."

   "Don't blame him. That alley's a deathtrap."

   They finish their meal in silence, and Othinberg's buddy shows up on schedule, giving Terry time to reflect while the man waits for his bag. Their new toys are handy enough at collecting evidence, even if they can't just use whatever they want -- not only in a moral sense, but a practical one. His old man would have had way more of a problem with _that Stasi shit_. But it's not as though they're capping suspects in the back, mysteriously finding drugs or weapons where there were none only moments before. And Marty Othinberg is not a nice guy trying to make ends meet, but a sleazebag with eight kids who still sleeps with two of the moms on a regular basis. When he's not beating the crap out of them.

   So Terry doesn't feel the least bit guilty. He can look Jeannie in the eye when he comes home, at himself in the mirror before bed, and if he feels genuinely guilty about anything it's that he doesn't have kids of his own. He's never made politics a priority, and noone could have been more surprised when the orders came from out of the blue. But even looking at it objectively, after the fact, Terry thinks he deserved this promotion.

   Now it's time to earn it.

   "Should be pretty standard from here." David wipes his chin, crumpling the napkin into a ball and stuffing it in his pocket. He's a bit of a neat freak. "Keep him in sight, keep listening --"

   "And hope he takes us somewhere nice."

 

**

 

   Faith thinks she may have adjusted to being a passenger, judging by the groans as Willow hauls herself from the car, one hand clutching the small of her back. As a result she allows herself to be more solicitous than usual, hurrying around to the other side, giving the redhead a gentle push back into her seat.

   "Call Giles. Turkey sub, extra veg?"

   Willow gives a grateful smile, pressing a wad of bills in her hand before leaning back and rolling the window down. The witch keeps talking about cutting her hair, but so far Faith has convinced her to leave it be. Not sure why she prefers it long. Unless a shorter 'do might stir up memories less pleasant.

   Might, hell.

   Who does she think she's fooling?

   The line at the counter is longer than anticipated, giving her time to freshen up. She's not at all surprised to find Will out of the car by the time she gets back, the witch stretching her legs by the patio tables.

   "_The Council may well have been a tool of the patriarchy. But at least their cell phone provider was not run by gibbering orangutangs to whom the concept of customer service is a foreign subject._" Giles isn't raising his voice, but Slayer hearing picks up every word. The Watcher sighs heavily. "_And this new phone -- it's not working out._"

   "It's got a ton of new features," Willow offers, trying to be helpful.

   "_Which are of no use except as a distraction._"

   "Adjustment can be an emotional process." Willow looks over as Faith sits down, giving her a grin and a not-quite eye roll. "You just need to look at it rationally --"

   "_I took notes! Simply to delete something is a process requiring no less than six steps! You honestly call that rational?_"

   "I've still got my old one, if you want to trade --"

   Faith tunes it out as she hands over the promised poultry, tearing into her hot french dip. She's riding the crest of a protein high when the sound of her name snaps her out of it.

   "Did you want to talk to Faith?"

   "_Better her than this bloody meeting to which I am already unfashionably late_." Giles' contrition is second only to his obvious stress level. "_Another urgently boring one. Possibly boringly urgent_."

   "It's okay," Willow manages, through a mouthful of turkey. "I can get her up to speed --"

   "_Wonderful. I'll have Dawn call as soon as she gets in --_"

   "Goodbye, Giles." Willow clicks off and shuts her eyes, giving a sigh of relief before digging back into her sandwich.

   "Pipsqueak?" Faith frowns. "What's up with that?"

   "Mmf -- well, she found out Dana was back, and she caught the next Monday morning flight out of Rome." Willow looks concerned, if somewhat distracted by her lunch. "I'm just glad Giles is gonna have another set of hands around. He's no spring chicken."

   "Naw, that'd be Wes. Was," Faith corrects, allowing herself a smile. "Wasn't last time I looked."

   "Wesley? Oh, the stubble? The leather? The 'crazed serial killer so cute you can't resist?' vibe?" Willow shakes her head. "Nope. Wouldn't know a thing about that."

   "Seriously." Faith's smile turns to a grimace. "Be glad you showed up late to that party."

   "You mean LA?" Willow's frown has passed cute and is well into disturbed. "I think I remember...something about that," she finishes, vaguely, off the other woman's obvious tension.

   "Yeah." Faith allows herself to relax. Whatever Willow might remember, it won't be brought up. This time.

   "Talk about losin' touch -- we oughtta give Angel's crew a buzz. Whaddya say?"

   "Sure." Willow still looks concerned and distracted. Those states seem to go together often for her, and Faith is not going to ask. No prying or prodding. She is space giver girl.

   "So what's up?"

   (_in for a penny_)

   "Will, nobody gets better overnight."

   (_we all fall down_)

   "She's gonna be fine."

   "I know." Willow sips soda through her straw, nose crinkling from the bubbles. "I guess...I'm just more worried about Giles than I wanted to let on. All those years in Sunnydale, it seemed like all he could talk about was _oh to be in England, now the weather's there_. But now that he's finally home? He sounds more frazzled than before."

   "Dana's a handful."

   (_that we unloaded when we couldn't hack it_)

   "And she's not the only thing on their plate." Faith nods in the direction of Willow's half-consumed meal. "Speakin' of which --"

   Willow smiles affectionately, pushing over the rest of the sandwich. "Have at it."

   Faith does so with a vengeance, thinking Willow seems to derive an inordinate amount of pleasure from watching her eat. She tries not to snicker.

   "I do want to stop back in London, before the year's out." Willow sounds better already for being so decisive. "Don't get me wrong -- the coven are a great bunch of gals. But between you and me, they've been steeping themselves in theory a little too long."

   Faith nods, immersed in picking out pieces of green pepper.

   "And I still think Giles is holding out on us." Willow takes another sip of soda, staring at the sky. "Maybe he's got a girlfriend."

   "G-man gettin' jiggy." Faith grins, imagining his reaction to her words. "Ya think?"

   "Kinda hope." Willow almost looks lost as she watches the clouds pass overhead. "It just feels like..."

   And Faith feels that familiar twinge. As if she's the one under the microscope. Because what kind of idiot thinks they can have any secrets from a witch so powerful she has to meditate every damn day to _not_ read your mind?

   "Like there's somethin' he ain't tellin' us."

   She almost doesn't finish the sandwich, but years of involuntary hunger tip the scales. Not another word passes between them as they clean up their trash and get back in the car, and Faith has no idea where they're going or why but one of them is going to have to break this stupid silence. Why not her?

   She half-turns in her seat, leans back so as not to block Will's view. Takes a deep breath --

   Her arm whips out, slamming Willow back in her seat.

   A squeal of brakes fills the air. Willow's hyperventilating, knuckles white on the wheel as she stares at the now-empty space in front of her.

   "Jesus!" Faith is unbuckled in the blink of an eye, patting Willow down; trying not to freak at the look on the other woman's face. "You okay? Talk to me --"

   Willow, clearly shaken, manages a nod. She opens her mouth.

   Another screech comes, from down the street.

   And then a crash.

 

**

 

   Terry has only slightly more idea what happened, but he's still not clear on everything. Otho had dropped out of sight early on, then seemingly vanished off their radar. When they regained the signal he was moving faster, and Terry had to hold back an itching lead foot to avoid getting too close. They were headed into the ritzier part of downtown, where their mark's crummy LeSabre stood out like a screaming red flag.

   He'd stopped at a bank, and this alone was enough to raise both men's hackles. But Otho comes back out the same way he went in, apparently empty handed.

   What the hell's going on here?

   Otho's phone rings as he approaches his car. He pulls it out with an impatient look, scratching his scraggly mustache; utterly bored as he puts it to his ear.

   Then he looks straight at them.

   _Shit_, Terry whispers. Otho is hightailing it to the car; jumping in and gunning it for all he's worth, yelling something at his own partner.

   _Get on him_, David yells, sounding frantic, out of control. _Get on him, get on him_ \--

 

**

 

   The miniature town square is a straight up ancient western from outer space as they pull up and Faith scrambles out, scanning the scene. Downtown the buildings are a mix of high tower white, little red brick. Should be bustling with people, but apart from the groan of twisted metal, the hiss of automotive fluid escaping onto asphalt, the intersection and surrounding blocks are deserted. The deathtrap that nearly took off their front end lies half-buried in a newer vehicle, passenger door hanging ajar; its driver clearly dead, impaled on his own steering column to gruesome and comic effect.

   In the other car a woman struggles, her face obscured with blood.

   Faith takes it all in. And for a split second, she freezes. Low profile can't begin to cover this level of getting involved, there's not a demon in sight and where are those frigging sirens, these guys are taking forever --

   Willow's hand is heavy on her arm. Holding her back.

   Too late.

 

**

 

   It's been too many years since Terry prayed, almost as many since he was a halfway decent junior fullback. Now he's a hair shy of actually beseeching the Almighty as he careens back down the alley, gun in hand. They'd arrived in time to see Otho's partner scramble from the crumpled remains of the car, moving at a respectable clip despite a notable limp, and Terry didn't hesitate before taking off after the fleeing suspect with all the fear of the unknown at his heels.

   Except the bastard got away. Maybe for good. Or maybe circling around, for an ambush...

   He skids to a halt at the mouth of the alley, ducks back against the wall before peering round. More civilians. A young redhead, hanging back from the accident. And another, brunette. Pulling a body from the wreckage --

   He will not panic.

   That's when he spots David, across the way, likewise concealed in shadow. And despite his growing fear, the look on the other man's face only adds to Terry's confusion. Because David is staring straight at the dark-haired woman, jaw slack, eyes wide.

   As if what they're seeing is beyond belief.

 

**

 

   She tells herself big explosions only happen on TV.

   And movies

   (_booby trapped basements_)

   The faint smell of gasoline stings her nose, brings water to her eyes. More smoke than fire; a few pitiful ribbons of flame licking the asphalt.

   She grabs the handle of the driver's side door. It nearly comes off in her hand.

   The woman inside is growing frantic, trying to disentangle herself from her seatbelt. Faith adjusts her grip, plants one foot on the pavement, the other on the automobile's bent and twisted frame.

   "Don't move --"

   (_for my next trick_)

 

**

 

   Willow's seen her share of impressive, been the source of plenty since those early, fumbling years of trying to find her own footing in the world. And it's more than possible that a portion of her jadedness has faded in the years that have passed since they took on an insane hellgod and she saw Buffy truly unleash her full power. New cars are more space-age plastic than big iron, this particular model already bent to the breaking point. But the scream and creak of straining metal is enough to make Willow stop in her tracks and -- well, gape. Like a fish.

   Or a person seeing a girl _peeling_ the door from a car, with her bare hands.

   She'd been about to help. No idea how, but the power wells up inside at the sight before her.

   Only to freeze, as a thousand second guesses end in disaster.

   The air smells like burning cotton candy.

   Faith finishes peeling down the door, reaches in and grabs the buckle of the seatbelt with both hands, snaps it in half with a twist before hauling the woman out, over her shoulder; half-dragging her away from the shattered remains. And Willow reels.

   That's not cotton candy. And it smells _so good..._

   She shakes her head, hard enough to rattle her brain. Reaches forth and out, scanning the area. But there's no magic to be found.

   Or there is. Surrounded by something fuzzy, that resists when she tries to probe --

   Willow nearly passes out as her own shields snap into place, too late to save her; every sense alive and screaming as she clutches her sides, tries not to spew her lunch all over the street. Faith looks up, startled.

   Then concern becomes alarm, at the far-off sound of sirens.

   "Go!" Willow gestures urgently. "You shouldn't be here --"

   She manages to keep it together, accepting the burden as Faith lays the woman down, head in her lap. But the memory is still strong, and even without that moment of inadvertent contact Willow is sure this would be enough of a trigger. On automatic pilot in a well-oiled routine, caring for the wounded; all too common those last months in the town they just can't seem to leave behind.

   Thank the Goddess they can't go home again.

   "Hey..."

   Willow looks down, at a smile wreathed in blood. "Don't try to talk --"

   "I know..." The woman isn't looking at her; watching Faith sprint away and hit the wall running, grab the fire escape and scurry up the outer bars like a crack-driven simian.

   "I just think I should tell you...I think I'm gonna barf."

   Willow smiles, twisted.

   "Right there with you."

   Thankfully, the next few minutes remain vomit-free. She can feel Faith watching from the roof, now that enough of her focus has returned; sense the vague presence of others, from the arriving ambulance to the plainclothes cop who emerges out of nowhere, brandishing a badge and a beefy blonde frame. Willow answers his questions, tries to keep her story straight as they're bundled into the ambulance.

   _Don't look back._

 

**

 

   Faith doesn't stick around after the ambulance takes off. Follows at top speed, stays on the rooftops as long as possible, trying not to feel cheated that buildings aren't crumbling in her wake. That thought whips by like the wind in her hair, before guilt can sink in.

   (_you shouldn't be here_)

   She descends back to street level after a dozen blocks, forcing herself to hold back, conserve her strength. No more drawing attention. Except Faith feels stupid jogging, being so obviously not a jogger and then she just thinks _fuck it_ and puts pedal to metal, so hard she ends up having to collect herself outside the hospital. Actually breathing like she worked up a sweat.

   Willow did _not_ look good.

   She's on her guard before she passes through the front doors, with their towering glass and steel. Maybe it's just the Slayer, steeped in the gothic, languishing all those years unfed, but Faith's seen enough modern architecture. From where she sits, everything looks like a prison.

   Thankfully, she doesn't have to go far. Willow's sitting in the downstairs lobby, looks up in obvious relief at the sight of her. Faith comes to halt at the sight of telltale tear tracks.

   "Hey." Willow grabs a fresh tissue from the table beside her. "Have a seat."

   Faith does, with increasing trepidation. She'd been psyched up for a hug. Not easy to analyze.

   "Didn't make it?"

   "Oh, no --" Willow sniffles and blows her nose. "She'll live. Just --" She looks around, lowering her voice.

   Faith grabs her by the hand, ignoring the snot, the resulting look of surprise. _Fuck it_.

   "Just tell me what happened."

   "I could have saved her." Willow sounds completely miserable. "That woman is going to be scarred -- _crippled_ \-- for the rest of her life." She stares at the joining of their hands. "I could have done something. But I waited too long. I was too distracted. Anything I did now --" The witch swallows. "It would require...too much of a sacrifice."

   Faith fights down the urge to speak up.

   "And I know it goes against the natural order, I could screw everything up even worse and I shouldn't feel all guilty and stuff because it wasn't like I didn't do _anything_, I held her _hand_ \--"

   The hiccupy sob turns to a hiss at Faith's warning squeeze. Willow falls silent, waiting until she regains some composure.

   "I managed to dull the worst of the pain." Willow's voice is hollow, inaudible to non-Slayer ears. "She should heal a little faster than normal. But if I'd thought about it, I could have --"

   "Look." Faith waits for the interruption to sink in, for Willow to lift her chin and meet the Slayer's gaze full on, all hurt and questioning.

   "Maybe it's 'cause I'm not an expert on this shit. But it sounds like you did what you could." She tries another reassuring squeeze, has to ease up when her hand threatens to start trembling. "I don't know what it's like to have that kind of power, but --"

   Willow returns the squeeze before relinquishing her grasp in favor of another tissue. She seems ready to say more, but Faith's ready to give up when --

   "There's more."

   Willow still sounds depressed, but more businesslike. Faith finds herself ashamed at feeling so relieved.

   "Our car got towed?"

   That gets a nervous laugh, as Willow wipes away the tears.

   "I didn't think they'd let me see her, later on? And when I smelled it I had to know, so I -- I talked to her. In her head, on the way here. To find out if she knew anything about the other driver."

   "Right." Faith fails to not sound too confounded. "Because that totally makes sense."

   "It was magic." Willow swallows once more. Only this time, she doesn't look miserable. More..._thirsty_.

   "It blindsided me. I tried to get a bead on it, but I opened myself up too much." The redhead manages a ghost of a smile. "And, just for the record -- not a good time."

   Faith resists a smirk. "So you figured, time to make like the Bloodhound Gang."

   "Magic makes it our business." Willow rubs her forehead, trying to erase away lines of worry. "Unfortunately, Janis didn't have any more of a clue than we do. And anything strong enough to block my scans -- well, that's a big honking Caution sign."

   Faith contemplates this, trying unsuccessfully not to think of the name _Janis_.

   "The guy in the other car? I didn't get a good look --" Willow grimaces. "Or maybe I didn't want to get a good look because of the, uh, impaling. But -- did he look like a demon?"

   "Wasn't really payin' attention." Faith fixes her with a momentary hard stare, then shrugs. "If he was passin' -- damn good skin job."

   "God, I can't _think_ straight --" Willow's hands curl into fists. "It's like I can't remember if I left the iron on at home, and I don't even _have_ a home any more, and I don't want to get you in trouble --"

   "Chill!" Faith grabs her hand again, striving for emphasis without breaking bones. "We'll figure it out. Just -- don't freak out on me."

   She glances furtively around the waiting room, but the few present are making every effort to ignore both witch and Slayer. Apparently, a sight like theirs is all too common.

   "Don't worry," she soothes. "Nobody saw a thing."

 

**

 

   The DC Metro hub on Indiana Avenue, like most police stations, is neither imposing nor expensive. The same cannot be said of its main server room: With computer-related crime on the rise, and the terrorist attacks of 2001, the district's IT administrators had managed to double their available square footage and millions of instructions per second. Manpower becoming more expensive than CPU power with each passing year, security protocol nonetheless demands at least two qualified admins on duty at all times, and under constant surveillance. Normally this huge, air-conditioned room is buzzing with activity, full of dozens of people.

   Right now, there is one.

   A desktop flickers to life, as fingers meet keys. Pixels form patterns on the screen, projecting out in rays, refracting through the air.

   Reflecting from the surface of a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, to read:

   **TRAFFIC CAMERA**

 

**


	3. frogfarm: Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x02: "Murder By Numbers" (Act 2)

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
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_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x02: "Murder By Numbers" (Act 2)** _

Further poking would be counterproductive. So onward through the fog, with...

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer**

 

1x02: "Murder By Numbers"

Act 2

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/80754.html))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/83192.html))

 

 

  The walk back to the car is a slow one even with Willow's sensible shoes; Faith hobbling herself to what feels like a snail's pace. Holding hands doesn't work so well on the move. Plus it'd feel stupider than jogging.

  At least that's what she tells herself. Which sets off an internal bitchfest about whether she's just scared, again, which is of course the stupidest thing ever because even before she could take out a group of Marines without breaking a nail, that first night her senses came alive and her blood sang with power, Faith has never been one to back down from a fight. Like anyone in the big city is gonna look twice these days, and if they do she can --

   Do what?

   Pound their face in?

   "Wait up --" Willow's panting, almost trotting along behind.

   "Sorry." Faith can feel her heart hammering, like a human who just ran the mile. She forces a sardonic grin. "Little exercise won't kill ya."

   "Hey, all those hours crunching the keyboard? I'm like the Bride." Willow manages a return smile, makes a wiggly-hand gesture. "Original five fingers of death."

   Faith doesn't leer. Too much. "Got somethin' better you can do with those."

   Willow smiles, her own heart obviously not in it. Faith tries not to get too aggravated. Noble, and doomed to failure. It never takes a mindreader to sense the tension.

   "I'll be okay." Willow still looks a little pasty, echoing Faith's midnight pallor. "It's just...been a while since I had to deal with something like this."

   "Like what?" Faith hopes she won't be sorry she asked.

   "When I tried to sniff out the source of that magic? There was something shielding it, but what hit me didn't have anything to do with either one of them. It was that split second of unshielded contact." Willow is starting to go from pale to green. "With Janis. Who is a very sweet person and who I now know way too much about, and in that second of agony was wondering who was going to feed her _cat_ \--"

   Faith doesn't speak, lets Willow turn aside and spit. Very unladylike.

   "It's always like that. I mean, not as big as feeling everyone at once --" Willow stops, waits for the inevitable interruption; stumbles slightly when none is forthcoming.

   "And I guess that's another reason it didn't seem like as big a deal. In the ambulance, I had more control over it -- tried to give her some sense that everything was going to be okay -- and reading her was second nature. Like she was an open book."

   Something else Faith has beheld, without having personally born witness; knows full well the implications thereof. "And you were suckin' her dry."

   "No! No sucking!" Blush aside, Will sounds more exasperated than offended. "It's not like Rogue. Okay, on one level --"

   "Who?"

   "X-Men?" Exasperated Willow has reverted to Moderately Amused. This is rarely an improvement.

   "Not really into comics," Faith shrugs.

   "But we saw the movie, right?" Willow looks like her crest has fallen when this elicits another shrug. "This would be so much easier with Xander."

   Faith has enough time to be ticked off while realizing all the ways she shouldn't. Leaving Willow to struggle over whether to say sorry, which she doesn't. They're almost to the bottom of the hill.

   "You go ahead." The Slayer tucks her hands into her jacket, lengthening her stride. "I'll circle around. Give a holler in my head if the car's gone, but try not to blow my brains out. 'Kay?"

   She ignores or imagines the witch's eyes burning through her as she walks away; tries and fails to keep her mind a blank, struggling to recall Diana's meager lessons in meditation as she sets herself a path. An errant bloodhound on a random trail.

   Willow catches up on the second pass, slowing down behind her on the sidewalk in a very obvious fashion, offering a grin when the Slayer looks over her shoulder. Apparently the argument is over before it began. Her favorite kind.

   "Why, Congresswoman." Faith shakes her head as she climbs in, makes a show of checking her hair in the mirror. "In broad daylight? Whatever could you be thinking?"

   "You're not just grateful I didn't honk?" Willow readjusts the mirror, delivering her attempt at an admonishing glare.

   "Everything in one piece?" Faith makes busy with the seatbelt. "Or did we get jacked for my toothbrush and your crappy CD's?"

   "The only thing missing around here is my sanity." Willow's good-natured grousing turns sober. "And both of those other cars."

   "The two that weren't ours?" Faith feels the need to further clarify. "The two we saw wrapped around each other?"

   "Seemed awful quick," Willow nods. "And I didn't want to stick out like a sore thumb looking for clue-age, but -- I don't think there was even any glass left lying around."

   "So we're up against the secret police, or the sanitation department."

   "Well, it didn't smell any different. Whatever I sensed -- it could have been in that other car. The one with the, uh...the dead guy."

   "Lucky you didn't smell him."

   Willow crinkles her nose in distaste, abruptly shifting topic. "We should get a room."

   "Now?" Faith is positive she missed something. It happens a lot.

   "I could really use a shower. The not so naughty kind," Willow hastens to add.

   "Oh." Faith utterly fails to hide her disappointment. "It's cool. I wasn't --"

   "It's okay if you were." Willow is intent on watching traffic, but a tiny smile graces her lips. "I know how it is."

   Faith doesn't trust herself to reply.

   "And I refuse to allow my cunning vacation plans to be derailed," Willow concludes. "So we're going to rent a nice room, see at least one famous thing, take at least one dorky picture _and_ track down the source of that mystical energy. All before you get sick of this town."

   "Too late."

   As expected, Willow ignores the bait.

   "You laugh now. But if the police have processed it, that car is in their impound records." The witch nods at her laptop, peeking out from her satchel on the seat between them. "All I need's a place to charge up."

 

**

 

   Terry has vacillated often enough on the subject of kids, and the having of them. Right now he is in the camp of Firmly Opposed. He remembers how every look from his dad -- and Mom, before she left -- no matter how proud and loving, was always somehow touched with sadness. Kids would only be one more thing to worry about.

   He and the Rosenberg girl have at least one thing in common: They're both bad liars. Even if he hadn't witnessed that other woman before she fled the scene, before he dared to emerge from the alley and show his face and his badge, Terry would never have believed the redhead's stammering, swiss-cheesy statement could have held up under a decent grilling. Or maybe it would. Something told him she was stronger than she looked.

   Probably smarter, too. Observant enough to have picked up on his tension, the constant glances around as he tried not to feel naked and weak without his partner backing him up. David must have had his own reasons for staying out of it, letting Terry deal with the public face of things. But even now, back at the station among his own, he can't shake the feeling that he's being hung out to dry. Twist in the wind until he blows away, without a trace.

   He is not at all broken up -- or concerned -- about Otho's death. Apart from the fact that it temporarily makes their investigation a literal dead end. It's just that injured woman is haunting him, and Terry can't help but feel some measure of culpability. Might not have thought twice if they'd been operating above board; put it off to departmental liability, and washed his hands. Now he frets and sweats, guzzles bottled water and antacids as he sits at his brand new desk and tries to look casual.

   He just wants to know what's going on.

   As far as Terry is concerned, Otho was nothing more than a petty gofer to a local dealer. A stepping stone to a bigger fish. But it always seemed that David thought he was something more.

   Terry would like very much to discuss this with David. Among other things.

   David has been in the server room for over twenty minutes.

 

**

 

   From Faith's perspective, Willow tends to go overboard regarding their accomodations. The boarding house they spent all those months in after the fall of Sunnydale had been downright lavish compared to most of the places they've been since. Faith is copacetic -- she looked it up -- and it's not like the new Council is made of money, it's all gotta come out of somebody's pocket and why pay more than you have to?

   Not that she has anything against going with style. But she can't help thinking Will may be trying to compensate. As if any crappy digs will inevitably dredge up the kind of memories that threaten to pull her trigger.

   Honestly, she can take or leave most anything as long as the hot water flows. One thing incarceration gave her a real hunger for. Even with Willow going first and taking her sweet time, turning up the heat beyond lobster, Faith almost falls asleep leaning against the wall, lulled to rest by the piercing needles of a massaging showerhead.

   She's out and drying off, wrapping her hair in a towel before considering whether to walk out right now, in full distraction mode. Tinglies aside, now may not be the best time for maximum payoff. Maybe it'd be different if she'd been the one sharing this chick's essence, or whatever. But Faith is convinced the one thing she wouldn't be feeling is guilt over being able to bring more than muscle to the table. She ends up squeezing back into jeans and T-shirt, grateful at least for clean underwear.

   She emerges from the bathroom to find Willow sitting on the bed, hunched over the laptop, still wearing only her shirt. The redhead's own towel has been discarded, half-damp tresses strewn haphazardly about.

   "Still deep divin'?" Faith lands beside her, bouncing extra hard to sneak a peek.

   No panties.

   Shoulda gone for it.

   "Actually, I'm just getting started." Willow sounds merely involved, not overly distracted. Faith is slowly working out the different tones that indicate whether rational conversation is possible between them, or whether she'd get a better response from a melon.

   "Any glitches?"

   "Nah. This used to be a whole lot easier, back in the day. Even without magic." Willow's rhythm on the keys never falters, her smile tinged with nostalgia. "For years you could drive a truck through most public sector nets. Now a lot more of them have something on the ball. At least in law enforcement." She punctuates this with a whack on the ENTER key.

   "I just finished the preliminary setup that allows me to cover my tracks and stay out of sight. And _now_, I can actually try to get inside."

   "Cool." Faith decides against more. Both because it's hardly necessary, and it helps her focus on deciding what to do next. Sitting this close is enjoyable for its own sake, and she doesn't want to feel like she can't control herself.

   Not like she can contribute anything besides back seat surfing. She could get up, move around, do some training moves...

   She pulls her hand back, before it sneaks under Will's shirt. Quickly puts it under her chin, staring at the screen.

   DATABASE. That much makes sense. The rest, less so.

   "Kia -- that's Janis's car." Willow grins, pushing back a stray lock of hair. "I remember thinking it sounded like kiwi, and -- huh."

   "'Sup?" Faith might not have bothered, but when Willow's attached to a keyboard all bets are off.

   "The accident report. There's no record of any other car..." Willow trails off, fingers momentarily stopping, redoubling in rate. "Okay, that's _more_ weird."

   Faith can feel more than one alarm bell perking right the hell up.

   "What kinda weird?"

   "The kind that doesn't make sense." Willow's fingers blur, pausing again as she squints at the screen.

   "So skip the two-dollar words and gimme the blue plate special." Faith takes a deep breath. "_What_ doesn't make --"

   "Oh, crap."

   She can feel the bottom drop out. For Will, this is the equivalent of a nuclear strike.

   "What now?"

   Willow's fingers flare to life.

   "There's someone else in here."

 

**

 

   Inside the DC Metro server enclosure is surprisingly quiet compared to most housings of its size. Faced with the daunting task of complying with an overwhelming number of conflicting 'green computing' mandates, the last upgrade committee had thrown up its hands and allowed a loose coalition of techs to push through their dream budget: A system redundant to the nines, with power to rival the feds, but generating less heat and noise than its human maintainers. The typical day sees an average of three people within its walls, a high so far of seventeen.

   Today, it's feeling very lonely.

   David's fingers move over the keys at a rate to rival Willow's best. If she were here the witch would call the look on his face almost Zen, the economy of unwasted motion making him seem almost inhuman, and yet he gives the impression of being ready to vibrate up and out from his chair.

   Even having apparently found what he's looking for.

   He selects a range of files. Hits ENTER and then slumps over in his chair, chin on one fist, staring at the monitor. All of his former nervousness has vanished though David can't seem to sit still, head turning back and forth like some exotic bird, eyes squinting into slits behind his glasses as the loop of footage plays.

   Replays, and again, without pause.

   _Otho dead at the wheel; the other man scrambling from the car and away. And then, through smoke and fire, a girl..._

   The video is starting its fourth pass when David reaches out and hits ESCAPE. He looks up at the clock on the wall. Back at the computer screen, looking more nervous than before, foot drumming rapidly against the leg of his chair.

   The foot stops, as his fingers leap into action.

   A musician or mathematicist -- anyone with a decent sense of rhythm -- would have perceived some pattern behind the sequence of his keystrokes. Anyone might have felt some measure of curiosity had they noticed how long that sequence continued, compared to the lack of anything happening as a result onscreen. And a good number might possibly have taken notice when a new menu overlay finally appeared on top of the modern desktop interface; something crude and green and cobbled together.

   He reselects the range of files. Then PURGE.

   The menu disappears, as if it were never there.

   David sits at the terminal; the image of Rodin's thinker with poorer posture. He sits there for almost ten minutes before looking once more up at the clock, gathering himself and rising, making a hasty exit.

   The glass doors swing shut.

 

**

 

   Terry thought there was no way he could get more stressed. That's before he looks up and sees David emerge from the server room, alone. He instinctively returns the other man's distracted wave, then freezes at his desk, watching his erstwhile partner turn away; unable to move as he watches the other man enter the elevator and the doors close behind with a clang in his mind like prison bars.

   How long was David in there? Almost an hour?

   That whole time. Did anyone else go in? Come out?

   The answer to both is no. And Terry is already feeling sick to his stomach when the main sysadmin only then reappears, as if by magic, carrying a jumbo box of coffee and donuts.

   He sits and stews at his shiny new desk. Going over his options; not liking a single one. The Rosenberg girl's statement is likely to screw him any way you slice it. And his so-called partner could be working for anyone -- so many possibilities it's not worth trying to suss out.

   But everyone does what they do for a reason. And regardless of his path, if he wants to understand more of the reasons, one thing is clear.

   He has to find Otho's partner.

 

**

 

   "I told you. He's _dead_."

   Mattie tries not to look around, draw more attention, huddled inside the booth. His leg is screaming and all he wants is a shot, in a glass or a needle he doesn't care which.

   "_It doesn't matter._" The voice on the other end is a cheap eight-track with a blown speaker. Frequencies blending together, grating on his teeth like foil. "_As long as you have what we need._"

   "Do I get his share?" Inside he screams at himself. Too late. Double or nothing.

   "_They've already erased you._" A squeal of feedback arcs out of the receiver, into his head, icicles taking root inside his fillings. "_They're coming for you. But we'll save you._"

   He wants so badly to run. But his legs are rubber; the phone glued to his ear.

   "_Now you're on dialup..._"

   Mattie sways. Fingers loosening, as a stream of drool descends from his mouth.

   "_...so this may sting a little._"

   His eyes stare into nothing.

 

**

 

   If heavy breathing always came about through hard labor, Willow wouldn't joke about computers being good exercise. Usually Faith leaves the room for these sessions but it's been a while; this time the Slayer is right there with her, on the edge of her seat only more so since she has less idea what's happening, has to follow from the expressions on the witch's face, the speed of her typing. Which is sounding fast enough to cause the keys to start smoking and for a split second Willow thinks of golden fiddles, being fiddled 'til they burst into flames --

   "Whoa." She sits back, panting. "That was close."

   Faith lets out a shaky breath of her own. "We good?"

   "Pretty sure." But the reassuring smile is shakier than Willow's felt since a hell of a while, and Faith immediately picks up on this uncertainty.

   "Don't screw around, do we want to be throwin' on some clothes before they kick in the door or what?"

   Willow's ready to snap back, then stops. Purses lips and brow, putting obvious thought and care into whatever comes out of her mouth next, and she can see in Faith's eyes that moment of hesitation is enough to snuff out the slightest paranoia because they both know if the answer was _yes_ Willow would not be wasting precious time trying to Work Things Out. Unfortunately, Working Things Out leads to paranoia. Possibly panic.

   "What would you say if I told you I was kidding?"

   Faith doesn't hesitate. "That there's some things you don't joke about."

   "And apart from noting my obviously poor taste in humor, your next reaction would be?" Willow sounds as though she expects Faith to get it. Not hopes.

   "What's the difference?" Faith pulls her towel free, tosses it across the room in a Magic Johnson arc to land draped over the back of a chair. "You're the one who gets this stuff. Computers, magic -- I'm just along for the ride 'til you find something I can squish."

   Willow makes this little sound through her nose for which Faith hasn't yet come up with a word. Whatever it is, it starts with an H.

   "Contrary to popular opinion, I do not think of you as a brainless bimbo --"

   "Whose popular?" Faith deliberately misinterprets, challenging.

   "-- so it would be nice if you did the same," Willow intercepts, smooth as can be. "Is all I'm saying here."

   "Not callin' myself special or anything." Faith leans over the edge of the bed to grab her boots, sits up and starts pulling them on. "Just, we both know my skills are more...specialized."

   "You have many skills."

   Faith never pauses in lacing up, a smile briefly cracking the iron mask.

   "And you're right. You rely on me for accurate information." Willow shuts her laptop, grabs a brush and starts to work through the tangles. "Garbage in, garbage out. If I give you bad data, I can't be surprised -- or upset -- if you don't process it the way I expect. And since I'm not running around doing my decapitated poultry impression, you rightly conclude that if I'm not worried, neither are you." She looks back at Faith, who isn't meeting her gaze. "Although you still look stressed. Maybe gassy."

   Faith finishes off her square knots, knuckles briefly turning white.

   "So is anything else bugging you? Besides me," Willow amends.

   "Pretty much."

   Willow was half expecting that, or something lke it. Which doesn't ease the hurt.

   "Can you tell me what I'm doing wrong?" She manages not to sound weak or accusing. Nothing but kind. The way Tara would say it.

   "Nothing." Faith stands, coiled, like she's trying not to spring to her feet and start pacing. "You're doin' everything right."

   "You can't be looking for validation." Willow smiles. "I think I know you better than that."

   Was that a flinch?

   "All the Slayers in London gave you a higher positive rating than Buffy --"

   "She wasn't around," Faith interrupts. "And the ones that weren't tryin' to suck up were too scared to say boo."

   "To either one of us. All that time you and I were spending with Dana -- they were just worried about their..." She trails off, as something clicks into place.

   "Privacy." Willow can feel that familiar sinking feeling, tugging at her tummy. "That's what this is about?"

   "Yeah. As in me, havin' any. Around you." Faith chuckles, lemon bitter. "Hell, around the world from ya."

   Willow wants to say something. Something that isn't confrontational. Words that can somehow reassure either of them.

   Except nothing's coming to mind.

   "Gonna do a solo recon." Faith picks up her jacket, throws it on without turning around.

   "Don't worry. I'll call if I need someone to bail me out."

 

**

 

   Amazingly, Willow doesn't say one word to stop her. Faith tries not to think on that, or anything else, as she exits the hotel. Still failing spectacularly, and how can you not think of an elephant? Suddenly she's glad all over again she wasn't around for Buffy's own adventures in mind-dropping.

   She recognizes that phrase Willow used. Even remembers the abbreviation -- GIGO. She'd actually attended a few computer classes early in the term, those first weeks in Sunnydale. When Wes and Giles together could almost make her feel like trying to be normal wasn't a sellout doomed to failure. Like trying her best wasn't competing with a girl named Buffy and really, Faith was over that penny ante crap long before she took an early checkout from Club Fed. But she's never since tried to fool herself into thinking she was free.

   They've been together all these months. Her and Willow, playing house without a home. Can't say in any way she didn't know what she was getting herself into. Which is kind of the problem and comes back to that damn wakeup spell, back in Sunnydale. Their water brother moment; an unending series of scary doors opening on themselves, all ifs and mights and weren't-quites. Months of fantasy compressed into moments of unconscious reality. A shared fever dream, and by the time they awoke they knew each other inside and out. At first, Faith only saw the advantages -- anything that got past the small talk got two thumbs up from her. But the fading echo of that connection, the gradual resumption of the silence whose depths she'd only known after walking inside the bad craziness that was Angel's mind, has obviously been getting to her.

   In her own way, Dana can't help reading Faith, or any Slayer. Willow is sort of the same and all kinds of not, and regardless of whether it makes sense, even though she doesn't have any new information she didn't have when she woke up this morning, Faith is now focused on the ultimately impossible task of keeping a lid on her own thoughts. As well as feeling twelve kinds of hypocrite for how it's all just now sinking in.

   So, ditch the personal life. Get back to work.

   Holding back her pace nets only a few blocks' distance from the hotel before she succumbs to nerves and impatience, ducking into the corner market for a fresh pack of smokes. Her new sunglasses, scratched but serviceable, are still in her jacket pocket, and Faith dons them at the register, ignoring the counterman's ogling eye.

   She's pondering logistics as she comes out of the store. Breaking into an impound lot would be stupid even under cover of night. But if enough of the lot's in public view, she might be able to spot their missing car on a casual walkabout.

   It's been less than eight hours since her last cigarette. Faith has a thing when it comes to this. Nonetheless she stops, leans against the wall to light up before resuming forward motion, disappearing around the corner.

   Then tosses the lit cigarette aside. Pulls back against the concrete.

   The quickening tread is like the thump of her heart.

   Her hands are on him before he fully appears.

   The surprise on his bespectacled face turns to fear, as she slams him into the wall.

   "Wanna tell me what you're doin'?"

 

**


	4. frogfarm: Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x02: "Murder By Numbers" (Act 3)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** | accomplished  
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_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x02: "Murder By Numbers" (Act 3)** _

YES.

Welcome aboard spiffy new beta [](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/profile)[**strapping_lass**](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/), without whom this wouldn't be here, and wouldn't be near as good.

Not only did I manage this faster than when we last had such a major wait between updates? But I fully expect the next to be in less than a month.

Knock on wood.

And now further into the woods, with...

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer**

 

1x02: "Murder By Numbers"

Act 3

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/80754.html))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/83192.html))  
([Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/83850.html))

 

**

 

Act 3

 

   It's not like last time.

   No. Back then, she was the one who walked out. Stormed off; snitted. Whatever.

   (_and look what happened_)

   She will not think the worst. Even with her tummy rebelling against lunch, thoughts threatening to spiral off every which way. One minute you're on top of the world; then it crushes you underneath...

   Willow takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Searching for the center.

   It's not helping.

   It's not the end of the world.

   Actually, it was very calm and mature. For what it was

   (_she walked out on me_)

   (_get over it_)

   She busies herself with the finding of clothes, which distracts her enough to complete the transition from seductive to guilty. Not that there had been what you'd call an ironclad intent on that particular goal, but sitting on a semi-inviting hotel bed in nothing but a damp T-shirt could definitely have gone somewhere nice if it weren't for that pesky other hacker trying to crimp her style and any minute D'Hoffryn will be popping in to remind her that offer is still good, always open --

   She doesn't realize she's squeezing the phone until it goes off in her hand.

   The resulting squawk of surprise echoes from the hotel walls. Willow cringes and waits for the second ring, tries not to sound too eager.

   "Hello?"

   "_Hey, you!_" Unmistakable chirpiness radiates from the other end, met with unavoidable disappointment.

   "Hey, Dawnie." She manages to fall shy of pathetic, but it doesn't take a deductive genius for the younger Summers to sense the prevailing mood.

   "_Is this a bad time? I just got your voicemail. And Giles is still in a meeting, and Dana's being really squirrelly and_ \--"

   "Faith just walked out on me."

   This is followed by shocked silence. Willow feels compelled to clarify.

   "For the first time. Not that I'm hoping it'll happen again, but --"

   "_Whoa -- escape! Control see!_" Dawn takes a deep breath of her own. "_What's it all about?_"

   A dozen responses clamor to her lips. Willow closes her eyes again, searching for stillness; and in that moment the truth is clear.

   As if she could ever forget.

   "Power."

 

**

 

   Faith doesn't too often think on how many years have passed since she devoted more than the occasional stray moment to checking out the male of the species. Apart from the sheer bad timing of it all -- to say nothing of her resigned acceptance of the perversity of the universe in general -- said ever-lengthening dry spell springing to mind at this particular moment is no doubt the result of many factors, the subject is very complex and there are simply more important things to be thinking about when you've got a guy jacked up against an alley wall.

   Whatever the reason.

   So there's no time to reflect on his rugged good looks, the almost comical expression of surprise on those grizzled, delicate features; how like the accident this is in broad fricking daylight and the guy's not even fighting back, Faith is in complete control and yet she's feeling horribly exposed should have tried to lure him off the street what the hell to do dontthinktooloudbigbadwitchllhear

   "Hey!"

   His gaze jerks up from her chest.

   "Um..." A guilty grin spreads over his face, kid wrist-deep in cookies. "I thought you were the hottest thing in creation and I was working up the nerve...to ask you out?"

   She wishes it were true. And not

   (_just_)

   for flattery's sake.

   "You were tailin' me, Poindexter." Faith shakes her head, free hand running over and down his body. "Little too well. Unless your romance tends more toward the stalky side of life..."

   Her grip stiffens at the telltale outline under her fingers, as she pulls up the tail of his shirt.

   "Tell me why this doesn't look like all kinds of bad for you?"

   "I have a license for that." He sounds nervous. Doing his best to stay calm. Maybe alive.

   "Tryin' to reassure me?" Faith slides the pistol from its waistband holster, eyes never leaving his, tossing it to one side. He winces as it lands with a clatter and skid, but she's already going through his pockets for more.

   Damned if she doesn't find it.

   "...Officer?"

   Her voice becomes a blade.

 

**

 

   "_Isn't it obvious? She's scared._"

   "It's not just that --"

   "_Oh sure, let's not forget the hiding and denying. Which I always thought was a Slayer thing, but as it turns out is just some inane femme version of machismo_."

   Dawn pauses for breath. Willow suspects ice cream is also involved.

   "You sound awfully positive." Her tension is still far from defused, but Willow manages a smile. "I dunno...it all seems too trite and _Cosmo_. You honestly think you're qualified to dispense relationship advice from your lofty perch of teenage heterodoxy?"

   "_Ageist. And if I did kiss a girl, I'd be a gentleman._"

   "You'd wear a condom?"

   "_I mean I wouldn't tell -- hold on._"

   Willow allows her thoughts to drift, as Dawn confers briefly with a far-off adult _Peanuts_ voice. Soft; bee-like.

   Buzzing

   _sweet like honey_

   "What was that?" Willow shakes her head as the buzz subsides.

   "_Never mind._" Dawn comes back online, sounding fully disgruntled. "_He's still 'in meeting'. At this rate, I'll be attending his bloody funeral_ \--"

   "Did you hear something?"

   "_Like what?_"

 

**

 

   Faith marshals every ounce of control as she fights down the pounding in her chest, the powerful urge to rabbit. The stakes may have gone higher than she expected; the balance of power shifted in her opponent's favor, even if he doesn't realize it.

   But she's been in way worse spots.

   (_stay cool_)

 

**

 

   "_You have to admit it's a legitimate concern_ \--"

   "Of course it's a factor. I'm just saying it's not the predominant one --"

   "_You keep using that word! I do not think it means_ \--"

 

**

 

   Faith isn't sure what she's expecting, but it's definitely not another smile. Those rugged good looks haven't changed a bit and yet the effect is completely different, from surfer flash to an awkward geek.

   "Okay. You got me." Her prey raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. "And, speaking of which -- maybe you could --"

   "Not a chance." She presses him a little harder into the concrete. "I can do this all day --"

   "I don't doubt it --"

   "-- so why don't you _spill_ on the creepy followin' me?"

   "I can see you're not impressed by the badge." He manages a nod despite her awkward grip. "I respect that. Little scary, but --"

   Faith raises one eyebrow, knowing full well the effect even without an accompanying display of muscle. And some part of her is quailing at what comes out of her mouth because she's got to be nucking futs. Insane, foolhardy --

   "You don't wanna piss me off."

   "I'm well aware of that." He rushes on, before she has time to wonder just what else he might be 'aware' of. "You were at the scene of an accident earlier today --"

   "Didn't see _you_ there." Her face remains a mask but Faith curses inside, realizing too late what she's just confirmed. _Way to go, genius_ \--

   Amazingly, he doesn't take the bait.

   "Look, this is not the movie of the week. I'm not asking you to get up on the stand and testify. That's not what this is about."

   "Then what's it all about, Alfie?"

   "All I want is my collar." He sounds earnest enough. That's part of the problem. "The other guy who fled the scene. We know they stopped at a bank right before the accident. We know they picked something up, or dropped something off. If we knew what it was --"

   Faith laughs, feigning boredom. "Do I look like I'm here to do your job?"

   She releases her grip on his shirt and steps away from the wall.

   "Why _are_ you here?" He sounds almost plaintive, big blue eyes blinking owlish behind the glasses.

   "Can't you tell?" She kneels to pick up the gun, never taking her eyes off Mister Officer -- _David_, his badge proclaims. "I'm a tourist."

   And she really was just going to hand it back but it suddenly seems very important to drive the point home

   (_what point_)

   and she whips his badge through the air like a playing card. Misses his face by a fraction, embeds it a good inch into the crumbling sandstone.

   He turns and stares at it, sticking out of the wall.

   "Just passin' through."

   When he looks back, she's gone.

   His gun sits atop a sack of garbage.

 

**

 

   "_Feeling any better?_"

   "A little." Willow stretches in the chair she seems to have slipped into. "Although your therapeutic technique could stand some refinement. _I'm_ the one who's supposed to get ice cream. Or you're supposed to share."

   "_Was I smacking too loud?_" Dawn sounds only mildly guilty.

   "Especially when it's strawberry."

   "_...so I guess that's a no and okay little bit creepy and I can kind of see where she's coming from._" The slow realization in the other girl's voice touches close to a fear they both recall only too vividly.

   "It's not my fault, you were just --" Willow's cheeks puff out in a sigh.

   "Okay, maybe a little my fault. But I can't stand knowing she's out there somewhere and _not_ knowing if she's still in one piece."

   "_Wouldn't you just -- know? If something happened?_"

   "I don't know. Maybe." She can feel the returning sense of worry, coiling at the base of her spine. "But that's not good enough."

   "_So you're going to give her even more reason to run by going all eye in the sky?_"

   "I wasn't --" Willow cradles her forehead in only partly mock frustration.

   "_Trust me,_" Dawn continues, oblivious. Likely from the lack of video. "_Ixnay on the Big Sister act._"

   "If you love something, set it free?" Willow tries not to sound skeptical.

   "_She'll probably be calling any minute. Totally cool, like nothing happened_ \--"

   "Right." Willow spots Faith's cell phone sitting on the dresser. "So, even with call waiting I might want to --"

   "_Right,_" Dawn hastily agrees. "_And I'll call as soon as I know anything about Dana_ \--"

   "Thanks, Dawnie. You're a peach."

   "_And you're Professor Plum._" Dawn giggles, reverting to pubescence. "_God, if Anya_ \-- " She abruptly falls silent.

   "I got tired of Life, too." Willow's wry humor is tinged with affection. "But Anya wasn't as much of a Clue fan as we were."

   "_And Tara liked Scrabble._" Dawn's voice is quiet, matter of fact.

   "Yeah." Willow savors the moment, and then it's gone. "I'll talk to you soon."

   "_Bye._"

   She bows her head as she sets down the phone, already starting to drift. Most of the Devon coven's traditional exercises had been of limited use in her case, the few of any notable effect inevitably useless when she attempted them without assistance. Always she had felt so alone; never realized how she craved the magic until she found someone who loved and understood it as she did

   (_but it wasn't the same_)

   And always too the temptation to power for its own sake; for control over others, over the world, rather than herself. Her impromptu, inadvertent merger with Faith's psyche in those final chaotic days of Sunnydale might have been birthed by the necessities of war, but it was as much the result of her own hubris. _There goes Willow again, with her delusions of deityhood._

   Except what happens when you really do turn pro?

   More demigoddess, technically. Not that it makes the others feel better.

   She's always looked for shortcuts, and it doesn't have to be a bad thing. Right now her autonomous functions are working over two hundred percent more efficiently. The real beauty is that isn't even the real goal. It's just a side effect. The end result is a physical state not unlike a coma, and Willow can feel her lips curve in a smile even as she slips further under. Her brain, however, is wide awake: A goodly portion of its native processing power casting an invisible, ever-widening net around her since she closed her eyes. The mass of Great Archives in the vicinity makes for a good exercise in control; skimming the astral surface of every nearby node and network, touching without tapping in. The tiniest of subthreads watching for any scrap of data that might come in handy --

   (_Under the "slayer's rule", a beneficiary of a life insurance policy may not recover under the policy if he/she is responsible for bringing about the death of the insured_)

   Swooping and diving; a virtual bird on the wing. _You'll believe a witch can fly..._

   She thinks she's ready. Still, she hesitates.

   Getting it right is always tricky.

   (_"Well, at the end of the hammer, you have the power, but no control. So you choke up. Control, but no power._")

   _Faith?_

   (_don't push_)

   _Can you hear me?_

 

**

 

   Terry remembers the idea of walking a beat as something out of old penny dreadfuls, long out of fashion along with all grand traditions save graft and the bribe. He's always prided himself on being in better shape than the majority of his colleagues, but covering this much ground on foot definitely has him regretting today's cheese fries, feeling the burn even in the comfortably pricey running shoes Jeannie convinced him into.

   He'd quickly abandoned any pretense at secrecy despite his civilian clothes; not a soul on the north side, white or otherwise, would be caught dead in what he's wearing. Might be stupid, but he's less scared now than he was back at the office behind that brand new desk. More cautious for sure without the backup he's come to expect, his police radio giving him away even if the clothes didn't. The trick is to keep a steady speed. Not too fast or confident -- can't look like you think you own the street. As long as you know where you're going.

   Regarding which, he doesn't have an actual clue. Still, the radio has been providing some awfully..._interesting_ reports.

   (_"Unit two-oh-nine, respond to a man...uh..."_)

   (_"So I ask her if this guy, you know, actually tried to...uh, eat her brain..."_)

   He checks the nearest street sign and picks up the pace, nodding as he dodges a stoop with a gathered crowd of idle young bucks, enveloped in clouds of fragrant smoke. A flurry of hoots and catcalls follow, but he tunes it out. If they were going to mess with him, they'd already be nipping at his heels. Then a bottle at his feet makes him almost stumble, kicking into double time

   (_don't run_)

   as the jeering dies out behind. A beat would have been regular exercise; would have prepared him to go into these neighborhoods, deal with these people face to face, as an equal. Not some high and mighty blueboy who needed an army to back him up.

   Just a guy trying to make things better.

   The reports are starting to conflict, but it sounds to Terry like more than one poor bastard is being described as behaving the same way: Brainless, basically drooling, as they stumble through town confounding the natives and frightening the horses, as his grandmother used to say. He's ready to resume cursing his rotten luck, thinking of needles in haystacks, when a quick mental triangulation reveals that all of them are heading toward the same location.

   Even on foot, he can still catch up. And no amount of drool can disguise Mattie for long. Although Terry's not quite sure what he's going to do with a vegetable for a suspect. If the reports are accurate, they'll have an easier time qualifying him as a juror than a witness.

   He puts it out of his mind. Focus on the now.

   Try not to think too far ahead.

 

**

 

   She still can't believe she's following this guy.

   Angel made it look easy, but going from street level to rooftop faster than normal folks could take the elevator was anything but. At least when you tried to do it quietly, as part of an escape, as opposed to opting for speed over stealth. Even so, Faith's seen enough traffic cameras since then to set off fresh worries about that earlier stunt, and what the hell is a cop doing oh-so discreetly asking for her help off the record? Like he knows she's more than your average girl? After working so hard to get clear of this douchebag, why risk everything

   (_you get nothing_)

   tailing him right back?

   Partly because it's proving easier to follow him by roof than it was to get up here in the first place. She'd tested it first, holding back instead of unleashing full speed until establishing that David's tracking skills weren't quite as mad when the tables were turned. Part curiosity, in self-defense; need to know, pure and simple. And of course, she can never have too much action.

   Not when the alternative is Meaningful Talk.

   As a result of these musings, and the challenge of keeping David in sight while avoiding his, Faith hasn't been paying much attention to her surroundings except as necessary to avoid taking a fall. Still, she can't help but notice that the ubiquitous cameras have disappeared as the neighborhood becomes crappier, the buildings more run-down. That and the effort of sustaining this level of output are starting to slow her down; forced to avoid the occasional crumbling hole, inspecting the far walls more carefully before each jump between --

   "'Ey! Crazy bitch --"

   "Sorry, guys --" Faith rolls to her feet without slowing, off and away followed by a hail of further obscenities, cracking a smile at the pungent smell of reefers and spilled forties. She can hear one of the disgruntled parties behind; the quick thudding footsteps of an experienced runner, before his shout of anger and astonishment vanishes behind as she launches off the edge of the roof, lands on the next with another roll that threatens to strip the skin from her shoulder. Her heart's almost beating fast as she hurdles toward the next, calculating where to

   _Faith?_

   She skids to a stop, wild-eyed, abruptly breathless.

   _Can you hear me?_

   Because she can _feel_ what's unmistakably Willow, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Not directed specifically at her; more of a general broadcast, receivable only by the intended party. As if the witch is literally trying to reach out and touch someone. Without invading --

   No. You'd think, after all they've been through, but --

   It's not that she doesn't want to trust. To let down her guard, to allow this intimacy they both shared once upon a time. And would her girlfriend

   (_there's that word_)

   be trying to reach her if it wasn't urgent?

   And still she shuts down; painstakingly walls herself off with all due conscientiousness, pictures herself drawing in like a turtle. Obviously there's no hiding if Willow uses all the power at her disposal, but -- still.

   No.

   A towering, ancient building lies ahead. Long abandoned, recently gutted in flame.

   David stands in the doorway below, looking up.

 

**

 

   Terry's reasonably sure the adrenaline wore off hours ago. After all, running on fear can only take you so far. Not wanting to lose his target, and the desire to avoid further confrontation, had kept him from stopping at any of the ramshackle convenience stores he'd seen since entering Downside. The resulting dehydration only adds to the loopiness, like he's floating inches above the pavement. Plus there's been this inadvertent loop in his head for at least the past two blocks, a parody of GI Joe cartoons from his childhood: _The muscles in my thighs; they been tenderized..._

   But under on top of the runner's high is real elation, because he knows where he's going. Has to be the old apartment Otho was using for storage until three weeks ago, when their operation -- or so they'd assumed -- had caused the would-be kingpin to pack up and move. Completely cleaned the place out.

   Of course, that was another _assume_.

   His head pounds with the sound of his pulse, ears deafened by the rasp of his breath as he shoves open the door and stumbles inside; leans against peeling and blackened wallpaper, trying and failing to wheeze discreetly. He has just enough presence of mind to pull out his service pistol, feel the comforting weight as he struggles to steady his grip. The place smells worse than last time, a pungent effluvia ripe with decay.

   Working his way up the crumbling stairs is an exercise in patience that offers ample time to regain his breath, and to wish firmly that he hadn't. It also brings him full circle, returns him to his earlier ruminations with a vengeance that encourages the queasy spasm in his belly and bowels. Late afternoon sun filters through cracked windows, oily and yellow.

   Otho's territory had been on the fourth floor, in one of the slightly less inhabitable areas. Some number of the district's homeless appear to have established or renewed occupancy since their unlicensed pharmacists vacated the premises, and Terry hopes he won't have to fight off an army of windshield wipers begging for spare change. He can hear them scuttle, off in the distance. Fleeing from his presence...

   He nearly cries out as he rounds the corner, fumbling with his pistol before realizing the shadowy figure is still as a corpse.

   Terry slowly creeps forward, on the balls of his feet, gun upraised as he strains to make out details. The dim light and dust in the air -- God knows what else -- merely obscure his vision, but the emotional state he's managed to work himself into despite his best efforts is making him doubt each and every detail of what normally masquerades as real.

   The figure sits unmoving in a chair by the entrance to Otho's suite, its features familiar through months of observation. Unmistakably Mattie; looking stupider than usual, fitting the radio descriptions to a tee: Slack-jawed, staring into space, his steady breath the only sign of life --

   "Knew you'd be the first."

   Terry wonders how he's remaining calm as he turns to face that voice.

   "First what?" _Okay,_ he thinks to himself. _That was less calm._

   "First one to find him." David steps forward, illuminated by the scant light falling in through grime-encrusted glass. Terry takes scant satisfaction in seeing his erstwhile partner almost as winded as he feels. The man might be breaking a sweat, but he still looks like a goddamn soap star.

   "Four units out looking for this guy," David continues, "and a bunch more like him. Difference is -- you knew what you were looking for."

   His heartrate nearly doubles as David casually moves past him, ignoring the gun, kneeling to examine their suspect in more detail.

   Terry licks his lips. "You move awful quiet."

   "Part of the job." David frowns, gently rapping Mattie's forehead with his knuckles.

   Terry watches, dumbfounded, as his partner considers the other man's unresponsive state. He thinks he should protest, but before he can voice his objection David's pulled out a jacknife, slammed the blade into Mattie's hand, pinned it to the arm of the chair.

   He would cry out, except the utter lack of reaction makes it seem pointless. Also, he was sort of expecting it.

   David looks back at him, about to speak, and then freezes. He's looking past Terry, into the shadowy adjoining room.

   "Looks like he's not alone." For the first time since Terry laid eyes on him, David looks not just ill at ease, but downright sick to his stomach.

   He doesn't want to know; every instinct screams against it, and yet he has to see. Terry forces himself to turn, squinting into the darkness.

   "I mean, I would say _we're_ not alone." David actually sounds nervous, on the verge of babble. "But...I don't think these guys are _here_. At all."

   _A woman standing, leaning with her forehead against a wall, caught in midstride; a man in a suit, collapsed on the floor, unblinking eyes staring at the rotting ceiling..._

   "Private party, guys?"

   Only one of them knows that voice.

   But when they turn, they both know the woman in the doorway.

   And she's very much alive.

 

**

 

   "Sweet screaming Jesus."

   Faith shakes her head in disbelief, taking in the outrageous scene. Figures. Where one cop goes, more always follow. Like roaches.

   The new one's gun is drawn, which does the same for her attention. She recognizes him as the cornfed whitebread she saw stuffing Willow into the ambulance. Sucker looks almost as confused as she feels, and why not? Unless his buddy spilled the beans, he hasn't got a clue who she is. Said buddy being the dark-haired, glasses-toting Dick Handsome -- excuse her, _David_ \-- the weirdo stalker who tried to recruit her. Then led her to this dump, supposedly following a lead of his own.

   So. Vaguely familiar cop. Annoyingly, slightly more familiar cop. And another guy. Sitting in a chair, with his hand

   (_whatthefuck_)

   "What the _fuck_!"

   She doesn't realize she's shouting until she sees the looks on their faces. David steps back, hands in the air; his partner appears half-crazed, weapon arm practically flailing as his gaze darts back and forth between them, and really Faith ought to be keeping a closer eye on that whole gun thing but the fellow in the chair keeps drawing her complete and horrified awareness. Looking more and more wrong the longer she --

   "I know."

   David -- assuming that's his name -- sounds as reasonable as the first time she heard his voice. Faith turns and stares him down, incredulous.

   "Far as I'm concerned, you know jack less than shit." The words tumble out, angrier than intended, as she tries to ignore herself reflected in those delicate wire-rimmed lenses. "You wanna tell me what this is?"

   He flashes that disarming grin. "We don't have any field tests, if that's what you're asking --"

   "It wasn't." Faith doesn't realize she's expecting him to back down from her patented glare until he fails to do precisely that.

   "Take a look. All of them." David flings out one arm, indicating the remainder of the ruined apartment, the slumped and scattered bodies. His buddy is standing there, as dumbstruck as the guy in the chair, staring at the two of them as though they're a pair of axe-wielding lunatics.

   "They seem to be breathing. And if they're like our friend here --"

   "Mattie." Terry doesn't realize he's spoken aloud until David's eye falls upon him, a spotlight zeroing in on his conscience.

   "-- they've got a pulse," David continues with a frown. "But no indication of conscious thought -- no involuntary reactions of any kind." He shrugs, affecting a naive curiosity, looking back at Faith.

   "Unless you know something we don't?"

   Faith opens her mouth. Ready to throw down, with whatever bullshit it takes. And then she stops, because her first instinct -- so untypical! -- is to handle this as low-key as possible. Downplay or hide any supernatural elements, like when she met Katie. Standard operating procedure.

   Will that even work? Or make things more dangerous for civvies, who don't know what's what?

   Does she even know herself?

   David walks back over to the chair; staring down like it's Christmas morning and he's beholding a present with the world's most complicated bow. The living gift himself is still staring into space, his slack, lumpen face an expressionless void.

   "Won't be long before those other units get here." Though he doesn't look her way, it feels as though David is directing this observation at Faith. He sighs, bent over with his hands on his knees, looking twice his age. Whatever that is.

   Then in one fluid motion he stands, draws his own gun, and shoots the man in the head.

 

**

 

   Terry dimly realizes there's nowhere to run.

   Paralyzed, he struggles to raise the enormous weight in his hand.

 

**

 

   The guy doesn't fly out of his chair, or anything dramatic. He simply jerks, once, then slumps over like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

   For her part, Faith's surprise at the speed and smoothness of David's actions -- few humans can move fast enough to second-guess a Slayer -- is surpassed by momentary shock at the absolute efficiency of this emotionless execution. Even after every depraved and despicable thing she's witnessed, every ruthless and rapacious act of demon and human alike, she can only stand there like an idiot. Stunned into watching the blood trickle from the tiny hole in his forehead --

   Her left hand shoots out, grabs David by the hand as her open right palm meets his chest, sends him into the wall, his weapon left behind in her suddenly shaking grasp. His head snaps back against the plaster and he sinks to the floor, coughing and clutching his chest, and Faith can feel a stab of pain in her heart, that old familiar fear; she pulled it at the last but any move against a human can be fatal, he stares up at her like he's only now figuring out exactly what she can do and why the hell did he shoot this poor sonofabitch --

   "What she said." The other cop swallows, staring down at the corpse, absently wiping his lips with his gun hand like he's forgotten it's there. "What the fuck?"

   "She's got authority issues." David groans, still holding his chest. "Also -- you do _not_ want her to hit you."

   The cop looks over, square jaw wrinkling in confusion.

   "Who the hell _is_ she?" He starts quiet, but Faith can tell that won't last. "For that matter, who the hell are you? What kind of fall are you setting me up for? Who the hell are _these_ poor bastards!" He waves his arms wildly at the apartment's remaining occupants, who haven't reacted to the proceedings in the slightest.

   "Dude." Faith uses full on command, the voice that threatens the continence of every rookie Potential. "You wanna quit wavin' that around before someone gets hurt."

   "Dude?" Her target's chuckle is approaching hysteria. "How'd you like it if I called you a chick?"

   "This chick just saved your ass from the man, Chico." Faith ignores his provocation, trying to regain control of the situation. "Nobody's murderin' anyone else here --"

   "Excuse me?" David sounds genuinely offended. "A mercy killing is _not_ murder --"

   "You wanna talk semantics?" Faith doesn't care if she's not entirely clear on what that one means. Close enough for government work. "This ain't a debate class. And maybe you two oughtta be helping figure out what happened to _these_ guys, if we don't wanna end up --"

   On a nearby desk, a telephone rings.

   As one, the living turn.

   As do the dead...

 

**

 

   The gun falls from Terry's nerveless fingers, as he blindly reaches out. But it's beneath his notice, so clear is the siren song inside his skull that pulls him inexorably toward its clarion call. Beside him David also struggles, the strange woman as well.

   And all around them, the unquiet dead; now animated and risen, drawn likewise into the beckoning abyss.

 

**


	5. frogfarm: Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x02: "Murder By Numbers" (conclusion)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x02: "Murder By Numbers" (conclusion)** _

Wow.

Who'da thunk it?

Followup report ASAP. Lots of turmoil, life never dull.

 

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer**

 

1x02: "Murder By Numbers"

Conclusion

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/80754.html))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/83192.html))  
([Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/83850.html))  
([Act 3](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/88650.html))

 

Act 4

 

  _There in the streets, looks like a man  
  But something's wrong that I don't understand  
  His eyes are open, but he don't see a thing  
  His skin is peeling off, his bones are sticking out  
  I'm getting scared..._

    - Oingo Boingo

 

 

   Faith's having the devil's own time, trying with all her might to think straight for the literal ringing in her ears. The waves of sound are overlapping, echoing, stretching out into a single unceasing tone.

   Her legs tremble against the screaming impulse to move, as in the outer periphery of her vision she glimpses David and his friend, staggering toward the desk with its insistently ringing phone, along with all the dead men (and woman) walking. Or _shuffling_, rather; mindless bodies lurching forward as though their unblinking eyes have spied an all-night brain buffet.

   David may actually be turning green. And his buddy looks ready to unload in his pants --

   (_dontpickitup_)

   That was Willow.

   Hold on to that --

 

**

 

   If Terry was at all in control he'd be out of his mind with fear, not to mention laughter at the sheer spectacle of a gang of zombies doing the Mexican wave as they imitate the living trio, stumbling toward the burgeoning waves of sound. He should be glad he can't feel the appropriately unreasoning terror; sad that he can't be amazed, at how this strange woman is somehow fighting this impossibly allure the rest of them are powerless against. All except Mattie, staring accusingly up at him like a broken doll.

   His unfelt amazement that he hasn't fallen on his face is outpaced by a numb realization, as his jerky gait carries him past the window, only marginally comprehending the motion in the street below; the dark and shambling figures that surround the building like a seething horde of locusts drawn by the silent song.

   Is he going to die?

   Sure feels that way.

 

**

 

   Faith might be making it look easy, but putting up this kind of fight is harder than it looks. Especially when it's flexing muscles she didn't know she had. Makes her Orpheus mindfuck look like an afternoon doobie

   _Faith!_

   That voice again. And now she can hear the desperation, sense Willow's growing fear. Some kind of trick?

   Or is she only refusing out of reflex? A child's stubborn _I won't_, for no good reason?

   _Do you trust her with your life?_

   The answer comes.

   And with that, connection.

 

**

 

   "Whoa."

   Willow breaks into an irresistible grin, and Faith's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

   "What? Perfectly natural, you ask me."

   Willow looks around at the blank and barren simulacra, taking in the infinite expanse of white. Also their black leather trenchcoats.

   The witch's eyebrow cocks right back. "So I'm Trinity?"

   Faith raises her hands in surrender.

   "I blame Andrew. Again." The Slayer's voice hardens. "And feel free to correct, but -- aren't we racin' against the clock here?"

   "Standard chronometric compression," Willow assures her. "We don't have forever, but it's the next best thing. Should be more than long enough for a decent powwow."

   "Right." Faith cranes her head, trying to see the end in any direction before giving up. "You got any better idea than me what's the what?"

   "Not yet."

   The witch sounds distinctly uncomfortable. Faith regards her with renewed suspicion.

   "So what's the holdup?"

   "That's the thing." Willow starts to pace, virtual leather swishing to and fro. "I could have gone ahead and done it, but I wanted to talk to you about it first. And with you at a distance, that made it hard to talk to you and so _that_ turned into a thing. Which I was really trying not to make a bigger one, and --"

   "And I'm here now." Faith's tone grows less harsh, but the urgency remains. "So what's up?"

   Willow takes a deep breath.

   "I want to hack the NSA."

   Faith processes this for a polite enough duration before asking the obvious.

   "And since my computer expertise begins and ends with looking at porn --"

   "It's not the technical details," Willow interrupts, fixing her with piercing green eyes. "It's a moral issue --"

   "Still not seeing it." Faith shakes her head, looking stubborn. "You're asking an ex-con about ethics?"

   Willow closes her eyes and takes another deep breath, praying for serenity.

   "This is why it would be easier. To force my way in, get inside your head no matter what it took. You'd know _exactly_ what I want to do, and how I feel, and you know why I don't do that?"

   And Faith's not so taken aback that she doesn't feel the cold chill of certainty.

   "Because it's wrong."

   Willow lowers her head before looking back up, renewed fire in her eyes.

   "They've got the most raw computing power within reach. I want to use their network as a distributed computer. Have it do the grunt work for us, to find the source of that power. Because I can tell that's what has those other people -- whatever it is that's about to get you guys? But I can't find out more without getting sucked in myself. Or fighting it so hard that --"

   She swallows, growing pale, and another flash of memory swims up inside Faith: That innocent face twisted with rage and grief, an emptiness that threatened to engulf the world. Maybe more.

   "And if you pull it off -- none of that bad stuff?"

   "That's the plan," Willow confirms. She falls silent, pushing nervously with one toe at the nonexistent ground as she waits for Faith to decide.

   The Slayer doesn't have to consider long. "You gonna get caught?"

   A ghostly, shadow smile returns to Willow's lips.

   "If I didn't think I could do it? We wouldn't be having this discussion."

   _Good enough._ Faith nods.

   "Do it."

   Then she jumps, as Willow winks out of existence.

 

**

 

   "Dammit!"

   She can hear Faith's agitation even as she begins to fall into the dive. Already she's distracted, juggling this many threads.

   _Sorry,_ Willow projects back. _At least I can still talk to you. For now, anyway..._

   "No problem." The Slayer's embarrassment radiates out like solar flares, unavoidable by all but the most psychically insensitive. "Shoulda seen it comin'."

   _Can I borrow your eyes?_

   "I suppose." Faith sounds like she's trying to convince herself. "Not a lot to see here since you left..."

   _Not the white room,_ Willow interrupts, with all due patience. _Your real eyes, in your actual body. So we can see what's going on._

   "Huh." She can hear Faith's gears turning. "That'll work?"

   _I think so._ A firewall looms overhead. Willow becomes translucent, slides through and between it without a trace. _I'll try to act as a proxy -- multicast it back, so you can see too?_

   The briefest hesitation. "Go for it."

   (_Willow's body in the hotel room, seated in a lotus, floats three feet above the bed. Slowly, the perfect pose comes undone as she turns on her side in the air, curling into a fetal position..._)

   _Got it._ The new feed is a fat one, the equal of the one she's infiltrating. A human brain's bandwidth and processing power can't compare to a computer -- apples to oranges -- and the current visualization is just that. The map, not the territory. Still, the stream of data from Faith shines bright and wide, lighting her universe with its glow. By comparison, the foreign net is an old school _Tempest_ game: Ugly, practical vectors spiking outward from an impossibly dense core.

   _Can you see it?_

   "Shiny," Faith agrees. "So that one --"

   _\-- is what your body is seeing and hearing,_ Willow confirms. _And the other is a representation of the network we're about to board._

   A twinge of uneasiness. "Whaddya mean we, kemo sabe?"

   _Don't worry. We're not directly connected --_

   "Like Sunnydale?"

   _Not reading hearts and minds,_ Willow agrees. _But it's only fair you get to see what I'm doing, too. Quid pro quo._

   She can feel the Slayer's unseen eyebrow quirk.

   "Am I gonna need a manual?"

   Willow smiles.

   _Just watch._

 

**

 

   And she does.

   _On one side an infinite series of mirrors, repeating images of herself. On the other, a spherical cloud of stardust, extending lines like a porcupine in all directions..._

   The view stabilizes. Long enough for Faith to catch her breath.

   Before she can blink, they're in.

 

**

 

   Even running at maximal capacity, Willow can feel the other woman's sense of wonder, her realization of the true scope of the witch's power. And love, in a way she could never put into words. Because it's never been about magic.

   It's about the hack.

   "Gimme the play by play?" Faith's mental 'voice' comes across hushed, more appropriate for church. Or a hospital. "Unless you're too busy --"

   _I'm hijacking spare CPU cycles,_ Willow explains. _Like fractions of a penny. Each one is insignificant on its own. But add 'em up --_

   "They spell bang." Faith sounds suitably impressed, if not entirely clear on the concept. "And you can use that to trace -- whatever this thing is?"

   _Triangulate. Technically._

   "You okay?" Faith's concern is apparent even in this limited auditory hallucination of speech. "Don't want to mess up your game."

   _I'm good,_ Willow hastens to assure her. _This much multitasking, it's easy to get lost. You're...something I can hold on to._

   Faith is silent, seemingly reflecting on this.

   The shared dual vision pulsates, bifurcating further. On one side a zooming, crystalline castle viewed through a microscope, the other a freeze frame moment in time: The dingy apartment, the dead man sprawled in a chair.

   _Do you remember Fred?_

   "Sure," Faith replies, a little too quick. Sounds as though neither of them is eager to be alone with their thoughts.

   "Angel's big thinker. Kinda hot for ya --"

   _If that was flirting, her style leaves a lot to be desired._ Willow strives to stay focused. _In between all the magical book geeking? She pulled out this paperback I had never heard of --_

   "A book you've never heard of? Now that's serious."

   _\-- and it talked about the NSA, what they called self-initiated executions -- fancy word for suicides -- with this thought control technology they were trying to develop? Get this: An employee reportedly ran off of the property, saying that demons were in his mind. Before he killed himself._

   Faith digests this. "For reals?"

   _All too real. Totally documented._ Her trace probes are beginning to light the way, leaving a trail of bread crumbs. _Or the guy who worked for the CIA, in the fifties? A bunch of them were given LSD in their cocktails at this weekend retreat. None of them knew what was happening until it was too late._

   Faith snorts, or something like it.

   "Sounds like a party."

   _Well, this guy wasn't too happy. And it only got worse when the drug wore off. I mean, he worked in biological warfare, for Gaia's sake --_

   Faith can see that one easy.

   _He started thinking his bosses were putting something in his coffee to keep him awake at night. Heard voices telling him to throw away his wallet. So they made arrangements to send him to a trusted psychiatric facility, but...he never made it. He threw himself out of a hotel window, ten floors up._

   A grim, humorless chuckle from Faith. "Your tax dollars at work."

   _There were plenty of rules in place, at the start. It just turned into a big old frat hazing._

   "Figures," Faith observes. "Good ol' boys club."

   _Every club has rules._ When Willow has her stubborn on, it generally comes across as defensive. _Look at the Constitution. Or the limits on the jurisdiction of the Slayer. Same kind of rules, for the same good reasons._

   "Nice theory," Faith observes. "Needs more practice."

   She doesn't reply. Because the path is clear.

   "Will? You there?"

   With a thought, she is.

   And so is something else.

   _everythingpurebrightprecisebeautiful --_

 

**

 

   From her perspective, Faith is still standing in a vast whiteness. Like Sunnydale, only more so. The sensation remains of being suspended in an unplugged, timeless moment, but she knows it can't last forever. More disconcerting is the mental double vision, the two equally trippy representations of reality on display for her viewing pleasure; part of her staring out her own eyes, watching the frozen figures of the men beside her. David's face is a rictus of desperation, his outstretched arm caught mid-reach for the phone.

   Would she sacrifice herself for these guys? These total strangers, these..._schmucks_?

   And where the hell is --

 

**

 

   Willow's been to a lot of strange places. Literal and otherwise.

   This is new.

   She once had a dream, sort of like this. When she went to find

   _everythingishereeverythingisnothing_

   That's it, she thinks. Or thinks she does.

   This is a null space.

   _no way out no way in_

   _nowaynoimnotnothingno_

 

**

 

   Faith's just getting used to the loss of that brief connection, the severed lines of communication, when the bottom drops out. Mind slammed back into meat with a jarring snap, as the moment comes unstuck.

   The phone rings.

   David's hand descends --

 

**

 

   "Enough."

   She can feel tendrils withdraw, falling back. Away from her. So there _is_ a somewhere.

   "Who's there?" Willow reaches out, suddenly uncomfortable with that particular metaphor. As well as the tendril one.

   _We are._

   Willow is sure her body must be frowning. "...and would it be horribly presumptuous to ask who we is?"

   _We are..._

   "Well, you're no Eliza, that's for sure. Ah --" Willow stretches as her avatar shimmers into place, shining with the light of creation. "That's better. And don't take this personally, but -- this place could really use some curtains."

   _You are..._ The ethereal strains become perplexed. _You..._

   "I can see this is going nowhere," Willow interjects. "And since I'm already here -- nowhere, that is, and it took longer than I thought it would to find you and by the way, nice trick -- let's keep this simple. You need to stop messing with my friends --"

   _Life,_ the voice insists. _We preserve...we archive...we save._

   Willow frowns. "Are you demons?"

   _We are._

   "Right," Willow sighs. "Are you human?"

   _We are..._ The sound that isn't shifts, revealing more detail as she listens; a fractal choir given voice.

   "Headache now!" Willow rubs her nonexistent temples. "Okay, you almost tricked me into asking what you're not? But I don't think I need to. Because I know what you're not."

   _Oh?_ And now she can hear curiosity, the crafty intelligence of innumerable multitudes in that single syllable.

   "You're not going to take these. And you're going to release any that don't want to stay -- and you need to dial back on this acquisition, okay? Less forceful, more discriminating?"

   _Our loss must be made whole!_ The attempted threat is little more than petulance, even as speech and speaker grow more coherent. _We take only willing. Before death can claim!_

   "And when you make your sales pitch," Willow counters, "do you tell them everything? How they have to leave their body behind to start a brand new life?"

   And the voice grows warm. Soft, and oh so sweet.

   _Would it really be so bad?_

   Willow frowns, shaking her head.

   "Don't even think about it."

   The universe heaves and contracts in a rumbling sigh.

   "I shouldn't have to say it." Her vocal simulations grow softer, reflecting empathy. "This is a great hiding place -- but it's not perfect. Someone less powerful than me could have found it. Eventually."

   A moment of contemplation before the chorus returns, chastised but unconvinced.

   _And if we do not obey?_

   Willow takes another unnecessary breath, crosses her virtual fingers.

   "I'll pull away the mask. Reveal your presence to the ones who run this net. And I don't think you'll last long once they know you're here."

 

**

 

   The ringing stops.

   As one, the bodies fall.

   And though no one hears, the sound is deafening.

 

**

 

   Terry blinks. David is standing in front of him, motionless and dumbfounded, the silent receiver clutched in one hand.

   Then his stomach heaves, turning over in his gut.

   David appears likewise stunned or stoned, grabbing the desk for support. The brunette is already standing up straight, surveying the room with the look of a trained professional -- a professional _what_, Terry realizes, he's in no hurry to find out.

   He might spend the rest of his life trying to come to terms with whatever the hell they just experienced. But one thing seems clear --

   "Thanks." David's croak of gratitude is somewhat spoiled by a quick turn and spit, working his mouth as if to dislodge something foul.

   "My job." The stranger shrugs, seemingly embarrassed. She looks over at one of the fallen, an older woman in a power suit. Terry's heart flutters as the body begins to stir.

   "Hey, you okay?" The stranger crouches, extending one hand. The dazed woman readily accepts, clambering to her feet with a decidedly confused expression, her fine tailored threads a stark contrast to her Samaritan's well-worn denim.

   "They got the gas shut off before it blew," the brunette interjects, sounding only slightly awkward. Terry's mouth opens, then shuts as she smoothly continues, walking the other woman toward the door. "Head between your knees if you have trouble breathing, don't worry...these gentlemen will escort you out?"

   From the look she casts over her shoulder, they don't have a choice.

   Terry decides he's fine with that.

   He doesn't realize David's already recovered both their guns until the other man is handing Terry's pistol to him. Properly reversed, finger far from the trigger.

   They pick up some more stragglers on the way out, though he tries to ignore the few that remain where they fell, all life and breath now fled from their unmoving flesh. Terry makes soothing nonsense noises as they help her lead the herd to navigate the treacherous stairs, appreciating in every sense how deftly she stays between him and his partner, all the way down.

   He's already dreading the explanations, the threats of lawsuits galore, but the civilians automatically start to disperse as they emerge from the building onto the street. He hardly has time to be thankful before looking back to see the woman, still by David's side, hanging on his colleague's arm like some delinquent debutante.

   "You gonna play nice?" Her smile doesn't touch her voice. Suddenly, Terry's dry mouth and light head are the least of his worries.

   "Don't want to walk away and leave you two at each other's throats." She looks back and forth between them, smile growing almost friendly. "Unless you're gonna like, have a duel?"

   David peers down at her. "You're a very aggressive person."

   "Says the cold blooded assassin?" The brunette doesn't blink.

   "Takes one to know one." David returns her frosty stare.

   Terry doesn't realize he's holding his breath until the woman shakes her head, offering a dismissive snort.

   "Fine. You can throw down and run your mouth with the big girls." She pauses before continuing, quieter, with renewed force. "But you're not killing anyone else while I'm around."

   Terry can hear something in her voice that says she's no more eager to stick around than he is. David merely shrugs.

   "Not in my job description." For the first time Terry can recall, the other man's patented winning smile is weary and ragged.

   The brunette regards her quarry with equal reluctance and suspicion, and Terry is about to open his fool mouth again when her expression changes: Something almost imperceptible, flickering over those exquisitely sculpted features, as if she's tuned to some distant transmission that only she can hear.

   Before he can place it, the moment's gone.

   "Don't believe ya for a minute." She releases her hold on David's arm, affecting boredom with practiced nuance. "But I got places and people."

   She grins, all teeth, oozing sex.

   "Stay outta trouble, boys."

   Then she turns and walks away.

   Sauntering down the street like she owns it.

   Terry watches her disappear around the corner. Then he turns back to David, ready for anything.

   "Looks like this is goodbye." David holds out his hand. Terry looks at it in pure confusion, as if said appendage is dripping with slime.

   An electronic ring issues from the other man's pocket, and they both flinch. But nothing happens, and David pulls out his phone, glancing briefly at the display before tucking it away again.

   "Saw that coming." David shrugs, resigned. "They're pulling me off the case."

   Terry's head is threatening to resume spinning. "What about Mattie?"

   "Him, you give to the brass. And they'll be cool with that." David squints up at the evening sky, removing his glasses and polishing them with his shirt tail before donning them once more. "After that, it's up to you..."

   He offers his hand.

   "Partner."

   Head whirling with paranoia and internal conflict, Terry accepts the handshake.

   And his own expression changes.

   David turns away, then stops in his tracks.

   "If you're still feeling guilty, you should cut out the middleman."

   "Middle who?" Terry tries and fails to make sense of this.

   "That woman in the accident?" David looks back over his shoulder. "You could always make an anonymous donation. To her hospital fund."

   And with that, he ambles off down the street, accompanied by his own tuneless whistling.

   Terry stands looking after him, one fist clenched.

 

**

 

   "So, for lack of a better word -- lemme get this straight."

   Willow nods, encouraging. The redhead sits cross-legged on the hotel bed, looking no different than how Faith left her apart from now-dry hair and the addition of pants. For her part, the Slayer is slouched down in the room's sole chair; hasn't removed shoes or jacket since she walked in the door, having come straight back to the hotel except for succumbing to post-battle reflex and stopping for a chili dog. Which is currently sitting on the table beside her, half-eaten, having ended up as vaguely unsatisfying as her not having gotten to actually fight something.

   "Go ahead." Willow falls silent again, trying not to be Pushy Prompter.

   "That energy you sniffed out -- was some kind of _drug_ \--"

   "Smart drugs," Willow clarifies. "Mental performance enhancers, with added magickal punch. _And_ kick."

   "And these demons you found aren't _really_ demons --"

   "Not entirely. Not anymore -- after all the human souls they've added."

   "Which even with the drugs, they couldn't do as fast or efficient 'til they went all digital --"

   "Accelerating the hive mind's power and intelligence before they were able to fully control it --"

   "Which you encouraged by telling them to be cool, or you'd drop a dime."

   "They said 'narc' when I was in school." Willow folds her hands on her knees, prim and proper.

   "And this guy the cops were after was being paid, by the demons, to hijack the shipment from his own boss -- and the demons were pissed because someone else boosted it before they could pick up the drop?"

   "They don't exist in meatspace. Only in electronic form. So they had to have a flesh and blood agent make the pickup." Willow frowns. "He never knew what he was stealing -- they just paid him to reroute the shipment. Even the police didn't have any idea what this stuff was. But somebody else probably did -- namely, whoever got their hands on it instead."

   "And when you traced it, the trail ended up --"

   "-- at the No Such Agency itself," Willow nods. "And there the trail goes cold. As in absolute zero."

   Faith stares at nothing, silently pondering. Willow offers a hesitant throat-clearing.

   "I, uh...was I interrupting too much?"

   "Huh?" Faith looks over at her, momentarily confused. "Nah. I was just..." She bites down on her lower lip, chewing over possibilities as well.

   "So what do we do now?"

   "Right." Willow nods vigorously, punctuating her agreement. "I mean, is it our job to recover stolen property? For demons, even if they're not Evil with a capital E? And do we really want to follow these skimpy leads --"

   "-- take on the big dogs --"

   "-- one of the most powerful agencies on the planet, without a shred of evidence?"

   "Tough gig," Faith concurs, remaining neutral, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

   "Or..." Willow frowns, the look of both avid concentration and the horns of a dilemma. "Do we just write up a report for Giles...call it a day, and move on?"

   "Lotta unknowns." Faith pretends to give it some thought. "Hell of a thing to tackle without any backup. Belly of the beast."

   "I'm not really picking up unusual levels of demonic activity," Willow adds. "Though I'm kind of going by Sunnydale standards --"

   Faith allows herself a sort-of smile. "No such thing as normal?"

   Willow returns the tiny gesture. "The signatures I'm seeing are mostly harmless. Parasitic at worst. Keep to themselves, don't prey on humans..."

   "Except your online pals."

   "Hardly best friends forever," comes the redhead's quick retort. "But you have to admit -- every cult promises eternal life. But these guys really delivered."

   "Sounds like a bunch of squatters." Faith doesn't try to disguise the skepticism. Willow shakes her head.

   "They were just doing the same thing I was -- taking advantage of unused space. Not just between bytes, between _bits_. It was amazing! I felt like Heisenberg, discovering this whole new subatomic universe --"

   "-- full of folks with nothin' left to lose?"

   Willow looks crestfallen, then pensive.

   "I'm not saying it was all tea and crumpets. For most of them...it was probably an offer they couldn't refuse."

   Faith shrugs. "Can't win 'em all."

   "But we didn't exactly _lose_, did we?" Willow sets her lip in stubborn stone. "I mean, we saved _some_ lives -- right?"

   Faith is ready to snap. Instead she stops, takes a good, long look at the other woman's face.

   "Will -- you can't save everyone."

   "I know." The desperate edge in Willow's voice subsides, and Faith breathes an internal sigh of relief. "I still feel bad. Even though they'd been doing it long enough some of them didn't have bodies to come back to anymore, but --"

   "So what are we sittin' around jawin' about it for?" Faith's doing her best not to spring to her feet and start pacing. Not after it landed her in so much trouble last time. She gives her knuckles an emphatic crack. "What the hell are we doing? Where are we even going?"

   Willow gives her a look of confusion that borders on patronizing.

   "Wherever we're needed."

   "So what, Giles and Buffy get to play armchair general and 'deploy' us?" The rage and frustration may have subsided, but Faith can still feel them simmering, below the surface. "Or you hold your finger up and say _oh, today the pixie dust blows north_ \-- "

   "Faith."

   Willow's utterance is no more meek and mild than sharp or accusing. Nonetheless, the sound of her name grinds the Slayer to a halt.

   "We're senior Scoobies," Willow states, with her most eminently infuriating calm and reason. "We've got complete discretion. Giles said he wasn't going to pressure anyone, and it's working fine. The new Council is doing great without us, nobody's trying to micromanage anyone..."

   She trails off. Faith fights the urge to sink further into the chair, feeling the other woman's eyes on her.

   "...and we're right back where we started," Willow finishes with a weary sigh. "Because you're still worried about your privacy."

   An involuntary smile forces itself onto Faith's lips. "Can't hide nothin' from you, can I?"

   Another, heavier sigh from Willow. "You might be surprised."

   "Yeah?" Faith stares out the window overlooking the city, watching it come alive with light. "Try me."

   "For starters, the idea of reading someone's mind is a metaphor. And a lousy one at that. Worse than every car-computer analogy ever." Willow pauses, likely searching for appropriately dumbed-down words. "Remember when Andrew was giving that lecture to the newbies --"

   "Which one?"

   "In London? And he started talking about warp physics, and I said --"

   "Somethin' about windmills?"

   "That it doesn't work that way." Willow is obviously taking some pleasure in her recollection, but Faith can tell it's not producing the usual requisite stifled giggle. "I told you before -- even when I'm trying, it's not some constant, all-knowing deal. And it's not like you're Miss Jane Average."

   Now Faith looks back, thoroughly baffled. "Come again?"

   "You're a Slayer. You've got an advantage most people don't." A note of eager hope enters Willow's voice. "Plus you've already had some practice, when you were in prison. I could use the stuff I learned from the coven to help you meditate. Train you to shield your thoughts --"

   "From an amateur." Faith keeps her gaze locked on Willow, already knowing the answer.

   Willow doesn't look away. "I wouldn't --"

   "Unless you felt like you didn't have a choice."

   She wonders who will be first to flinch, until Willow breaks the silence.

   "We always have a choice."

   That triggers another tangent. One that's never far from her mind.

   "Look, I'm sorry." She'd thought that would be the hardest part to get over. Apparently not. "It's not just you. It's --"

   "Dana."

   Faith bows her head in acknowledgement. Willow's voice softens.

   "You think we abandoned her."

   Faith doesn't want to come out and say it. "Little closer to home."

   "You mean the mind reading?"

   "Whatever you want to call it." Faith's getting too close to growly for her own comfort. "Bad enough I got someone else livin' my life, as it happens --"

   "But she has to deal with all those others," Willow interjects, with increasing realization. "Including the ones who don't even have bodies to come back to anymore..."

   "Fucked up."

   Willow rises from the bed, stretching her arms toward the ceiling. "Do you trust her?"

   "Huh?" Faith wasn't ready for that one.

   "Do you think she would ever hurt you? If she didn't have to?"

   That, she doesn't have to think about. "Not a chance."

   "Well, then." Willow walks over to the chair and sits down in Faith's lap, curling up close. One hand finds its way into hers, gives a little squeeze. "That goes double for me."

   Faith can feel all kinds of irrational alarm bells going off inside. Fight or flight. Kind of funny, how fast her heart can go from zero to full tilt.

   "And you're not the slightest bit weirded out, knowin' she knows, every time we --"

   "It's not some constant, all-knowing thing." Willow snuggles tighter, resting her head on the Slayer's shoulder. "Besides. After all the trauma, past _and_ present -- why worry if she can have something positive in her life?"

   Faith lets out an involuntary chuckle that becomes a snort. "'Cause I'm all that?"

   Willow smiles into her neck. "As long as you're enjoying yourself."

   Faith remains silent, one awkward arm instinctively draping itself around Willow's shoulders. Thinking about how transparently she's being manipulated, even as she thinks that sometimes it's not so bad. Like when you know you're being a jerk. Mostly, though, she's thinking of the last microseconds of that earlier connection; how some part of the redhead's soul made its way through despite the protective firewall, in that split second before the big disconnect. A moment of weariness where Faith got a glimpse of the wiring under the board. How hard the other woman struggles to keep it all in.

   How big and heavy it is, to be whatever Willow's become.

   And how she definitely should have gone for it.

 

**

 

   Terry sits at home, in his upscale condo, in his favorite chair. His feet ache from the return trek, and his throat is crying for a bottled water straight out of the fridge. But he hasn't moved since he sat down, a look of troubled concentration etched onto his face. The new hi-def television stares at him from the wall, blank and silent.

   He's sitting there when Jeannie sweeps in, still wearing her scrubs, landing a kiss on top of his head.

   "Great show."

   "Classic," he absently replies. She ruffles his hair.

   "I'm gonna run up to the store. You need anything?"

   The hamsters in his head go into overdrive. "I'm good."

   "You sure?" She regards him with the sort of concern she normally reserves for patients. "You look kind of headachey."

   Something feels broken in his attempt to return the smile. "Maybe some aspirin?"

   He sits and listens to the car driving away. Terry looks down, clenched fist cracking open, staring at the unmarked capsule cradled in his palm.

   The capsule David slipped him.

   In his other hand, the note he'd found taped to the TV screen when he stumbled in the door. A torn sheet of notebook paper, bearing a black marker scrawl:

 

   _one pill makes you smarter_

 

   Does he believe it?

   Does he really want to be smarter?

   Or is he just stupid enough he won't be able to resist?

 

**

 

   It's not the smallest office in creation, tucked deep in the bowels of some unknown grey, concrete building. Nor the dingiest, despite the layer of dust that appears only recently cleaned from each and every inch of surface. Both the room itself and its meager furnishings seem to have sprung straight out of the previous century; not a bit of electronics in sight, only a plain desk taking up nearly a third of the available floor space, along with a pair of uncomfortable chairs that house its sole occupants.

   A yellow sticky note on the frosted glass door reads:

 

   **JTF**

 

   David regards his companion, an older gentleman in a suit, with implacable calm. Finally the other man speaks, a gravelly voice in keeping with the heavyset body under the bureaucratic uniform.

   "You're late."

   David inclines his head in noncomittal admission.

   "And you didn't recover the package."

   "No sign of it on the premises." David doesn't blink, his reply smooth as butter.

   "And you left evidence."

   The other man sounds deceptively casual. Still, David knows there's no point in lying.

   "Do I have to worry about him?"

   "He'll probably just flush it down the toilet." The older man's craggy features are motionless, betraying nothing. "If he doesn't -- we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

   Not for the first time, David is hardly surprised at the extent of their knowledge. Since they're choosing not to nail him, he forges boldly on.

   "Contents of the package aside -- as far as I knew, I was trying to uncover possible terrorist connections to Otho's crew."

   "Makes a wonderful secondary cover story. Wouldn't you agree?"

   David is silent as he regards the man he's come to know as his superior. The other man leans back in his chair, buttons straining against his expansive chest.

   "When you first came to me. What was the first thing I said?"

   "That you don't know everything." David's reply is automatic. "And that's why you have me."

   "And that's why we have people like us. People who aren't beholden to any agency. Complete freedom to act -- and the responsibility to use that freedom for the greater good." The older man nods, reflective. "Tell me something I don't know."

   "Before I answer that? I'd like to request --"

   "-- a full physical and psychological workup?" The other man's smile is without humor. "I'm afraid that won't be necessary."

   David removes his glasses and sets to polishing them once more. The odd, sterile environment, combined with their appearances, makes him feel like a juvenile under interrogation.

   "Look, if this is another MK-ULTRA -- I just want to be able to make an informed decision."

   "Son -- and I use that term with all due respect --" The older man's smile never wavers. "You don't know what you're talking about."

   David nods, reflective. "And I'm sure you're about to enlighten me?"

   "The employees of this nation --" David realizes the other man's accent is vaguely Texan, with emphasis on all three syllables. "-- didn't pursue those projects to learn how to control minds. It was to find out how far the concept of mind control could be taken in reality. And because human beings are flawed and fucked up, it turned into a party." He blows out a lungful of air like a cloud of cigar smoke. "Would have happened sooner or later."

   David is far from sure where this is going. "Bottom line is -- I saw something impossible."

   "Then one or more of your assumptions is wrong." Bushy grey eyebrows contract and bunch, one bony finger stabbing in David's direction. "You've seen the other reports. What's your hypothesis?"

   "You mean the so-called paranormal trend?" David shakes his head. "Fundamentalislamist psyops."

   "So say most of us," the other man agrees. "But they haven't seen this."

   His finger stabs a hidden button, and a hologram springs to life over the desk. A face David somehow recognizes as vaguely familiar; some uber-level, old school top brass of the highest order.

   _"The Initiative represented the Government's interests in not only controlling the otherworldly menace, but harnessing its power for our own military purposes..._"

   And for the next eleven minutes, David watches.

   _"The demons cannot be harnessed..._"

   Soaks up the blood and carnage, his stomach and brain on the verge of outright rebellion.

   _"Cannot be controlled._"

   Watches men die, torn apart by the impossible.

   _"Burn it down, gentlemen. Burn it down...and salt the earth."_

   With him, the general's words fade to black.

   David blinks as the image disappears. Stares at his superior over the desk, nearly levitating out of his chair on sheer adrenaline.

   "Welcome to the Hellmouth." The older man's smile is fleeting, all too cynical. "I'm sure you've got questions -- but it's your job to find us answers."

   David doesn't trust himself to speak. Still, he forces the words out.

   "Where do I start?"

   "Where do you think?" His companion's exasperation grows cold, deadly serious. "You saw what just one of these girls can do. And time was, that's all we had to worry about. One girl."

   David returns his stare with dawning comprehension.

   "That's right," the other man nods. "Bad enough in the old days, when a single nation or organization could abuse that kind of power. Imagine a modern, _fully equipped_ army of these girls. All of them more than ready to die for Allah, Gaia...you name it."

   "I am." David swallows. "It's...not as sexy as I would have guessed."

   The bushy eyebrows bristle once more, in what David thinks is a chuckle.

   "Uncle Sam's boys have been getting some extracirricular assistance of late from her majesty's little helpers. Who are shocked -- shocked and appalled --" A sarcastic scoff. "-- to find out just how far back this unofficial look the other way policy of theirs actually runs. Screw Al Kyda, they're all running around like a bunch of panickin' prairie rats over these Masonic moles -- whatever the hell this 'Watcher's council' is."

   The older man shakes his head again, opening a drawer.

   "But we need to know all we can. And that's why this..."

   A bound manila folder lands in David's lap. With vaguely trembling fingers, he unties the cord; and he is not at all surprised to find a familiar, dark-haired woman staring back at him. But there's no sign of the fire he saw in those eyes: Younger, but hollow and haunted, her striking features devoid of hope.

   It's a mug shot.

   "...is your next project."

 

 

 

  _There in the shadows, looks like a hand  
  Without its owner to give it a command  
  It's got a purpose, but I don't know what it is  
  I'm in trouble..._

   - Oingo Boingo

 

\--

 

Notes:

The anecdote regarding the NSA employee is from James Bamford's "The Puzzle Palace". An account of the suicide of Frank Olson can be found in Chapter 1 of Martin Lee and Bruce Shlain's "Acid Dreams: The CIA, LSD and the Sixties Rebellion":

<http://www.erowid.org/library/books_online/acid_dreams/acid_dreams1.shtml>

Finally: Believe it or not, the final scene was outlined and mostly written months before the first Buffy Season 8 comics hit the newsstands. I'm not saying this to sound better or smarter than Joss and his team, and I'm not in any way accusing them of ripping me off (unless you're one of those who believe Joss really does read minds):

> _They're digging through all of your files  
> Stealing back your best ideas..._

 

Of course I have no proof, and all that digital stuff is easy to fake. Just wanted to nip any potential wank in the bud, before it starts.

["Just so we're clear."](http://www.buffy-vs-angel.com/angel_tran_61.shtml)

 

**


End file.
